Chapter Text
DATE
NOV 16TH, 2038
TIME
AM 07:25:03
Sunlight peeks over the horizon and bathes Hart Plaza in blinding gold, while Detroit’s eclectic garden of tall buildings cut long shadows across the light. Where there would have been a chaotic and audio sensor-peaking rush hour, the automated taxi leaves them instead with lone traffic lights blinking at circling police drones and pigeons. No snowfall since the 12th, and what’s left sticks only to shadowed corners. Nearby, the river is calm.
Beside The Spirit of Detroit, Markus pauses to let himself have a moment—just one moment—to take in the sights.
The place has seen incredible change in the few days they’ve been gone. Where there had been fences and trucks loaded with bodies, it seems little sign of conflict remains. The disassembly pods are gone, and the original human monuments are neighboring new android architecture built from the scraps of the original Recall Center. Out front, mounted into the ground, is the flag of their resistance that survived the barricade. Next to it is a large piece of metal fashioned out of the scraps of an abandoned human tank, and it reads NEW JERICHO in fresh paint. Android ingenuity and tirelessness creates so much in a fraction of the time that humans can do. It makes him smile with pride.
“Markus?”
Back to himself, he realizes North is now ahead of him by a few steps, but has kindly paused to wait. He gives her a little nod to assure her he’s fine, then resumes the walk just as Josh catches up.
Connor is still lagging several feet behind.
At the median of the empty Jefferson Avenue, Markus gives a loud, booming call:
“We’re back!”
But it seems the effort was unnecessary, as the moment his voice leaves him, Simon is already emerging from the structure-in-progress, wearing a tired smile, and behind him are at least a dozen other androids calling his name in return.
He can feel his own face losing some of its tension at the sight of them all.
As the distance closes between the two groups, Simon asks Markus for a hug with his eyes and a slight opening of his arms; it’s granted. The same is shared between him and North, then Josh, in turn. As for the others, they form a loose circle around the group, with Markus at the center.
Out of the corner of his field of view, Markus’s sensors pick up Connor on the outside of the circle, merely watching with his hands folded in front of himself. The note is made but dropped quickly in favor of the people immediately around him.
“How did it go?” Simon asks with a hopeful smile.
North sighs and gives a blunt answer: “Terribly.” Simon’s smile falters.
“We talked with them every day we were there,” Josh explains with a little more hope. “We gave them a lot to think about. We showed them who we really are, and they’re listening to us.”
“What’s the point when the president herself refused to speak to us?” North counters. “Congress won’t even pass anything. They’re not listening, they’re just humoring us.”
“They need time,” Josh tries to reason. “They don’t understand us yet, but they’re trying.”
“Maybe some of them are, but most of them won’t bother. And they never will, because they’re humans.”
Markus steps between the two before the conversation turns into a fight. Out of necessity, he’s started to pick up on the best time to intervene. “We put our message in their hands,” he says, looking between them. “Part of conversation is allowing the other side to make their choices too. We can’t force them to pass a law at gunpoint. That would make us no better than them.”
It helps bury the same frustrations in his own mind. He knows how much Josh wanted the humans to be moved by their words, how much North is struggling to trust that the humans aren’t going to stab them all in the back. Both, he also knows, are views to keep in mind as this goes forward. Both are thoughts he’s had himself.
“Well,” Simon says to deflate the tension, “I’m glad you’re home. We’ve built up a lot since you’ve been gone. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
The circle breaks and starts heading back inside New Jericho, Simon at their back only to wait for his friends to walk beside him. Josh is first to catch up to him. North glances at Markus for a second, but starts ahead without him. He himself…wants to take just one more moment to savor the sunrise before heading inside.
… Sounds of birds singing through the empty streets. Metal welding on one side of the structure. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of a drone. And for just a moment, a whip of winter wind blowing through him.
Now he’s ready.
“Markus?”
And he halts mid-step. For the first time since Reagan National Airport, Connor has spoken. That fact alone makes Markus drop what he’s doing to look at his fellow, still where he was standing before, distant from everything and clearly uncomfortable with that rigid, overly proper posture. Connor still looks…troubled? But he isn’t sure why.
“I…have somewhere to be,” he says, and glances west.
What is in that general direction from here? He can think of only one relevant thing.
“Are you returning to the police station?” Markus guesses. It’s not an accusation nor anything he judges him for, and yet he can see Connor’s lip twitch, as if guilty. His LED is yellow.
“…Yes.”
“Why would you go back to them? After everything they’ve done to us.”
Markus realizes North has come back to his side, stopping there instead of approaching Connor any closer. Some feet away, Josh and Simon have also stopped, but for the moment they only watch and wait. He can’t read their expressions…except for the surprise and hurt in North’s.
“I…” Connor’s LED spins red, and he continues to stare west.
“They’re still on us even though the city’s still evacuated,” Simon calls back to them with a frown. “Every time someone goes out for supplies, they always stop and interrogate us. They keep thinking we’re doing something wrong, they keep trying to get us to break.”
“They can’t,” Markus declares—not just to Simon, but to all of them. “We’ve already come so far in such a short amount of time for them. It won’t be long before they stop their questions and accept us for who we really are.” He then turns back to Connor, even though he seems to refuse to look at their group right now. “Connor, you should stay here with your people. This is where you belong.”
His LED remains red.
“I…I have to go back,” he answers softly. “I’m sorry.”
“To humans who used you?” North presses, volume raising.
“They didn’t—” Connor’s lips flatten and he shakes his head. “…not all of them did.”
“They made you hunt us down like their personal attack dog. They’re no better than murderers!”
“North!” Markus raises his voice to stop her before she can start marching off in her anger. She shoots him a frustrated look, but he ignores it. Instead, he again turns back to their fellow. “Do what you need to do. We’ll be here.”
At last, Connor makes eye contact with him—it looks strikingly similar to the way he looked in the church that night, after the raid on Jericho. Markus gives him a nod, another encouragement to go. So he does, slowly, but with increased determination as he fades into the city streets.
“You shouldn’t have let him go,” North tells him, and leaves to join their friends.
Maybe, he thinks as he follows her, but who is he to deny the freedom of another?
TIME
AM 08:13:58
Detroit is so quiet it’s almost unsettling.
Some activity continues on uninterrupted here and there. Rooftop farms operate as normal because Markus didn’t want to destroy a food supply for the humans—as a peace offering and as a trade possibility. Human police officers are on beat, keeping a tab on any androids that venture out into the city streets. There is also the occasionally grumpy human that refused to leave; one spouts insults at any android that looks at him, another is simply content to watch from a corner while throwing back a bottle of whiskey (shoplifted, no doubt).
On his walk to DPD Central Station, Connor notes everything he sees but interacts with none of it. There is a lot on his mind, and he assumes he may have duties to perform in spite of those concerns. But that may also be a faulty presumption.
Probability of success currently hovers at an even 50%. It has been wavering like a broken meter all day, however, so it’s certain not to last.
Soon, after a mile-long walk from Hart Plaza, the front doors of the station come within sight. Connor takes just a moment to smooth his new suit jacket and straighten his new tie, then makes his way inside.
It’s quiet here, too. Even more so than the streets. Only one person behind the desk—a human—and no one waiting around.
She startles to see him enter, her attention having been on something at the desk before this moment. She doesn’t greet him, so he merely nods politely at her and continues on his way. The doors still grant him access without needing to ask permission thanks to his prior authorization tag.
There in the bullpen sits the most surprising sight of the day: Hank is here, uncharacteristically early. Connor stops at the sight of him, and begins wrestling with that same gnawing concern that has spread throughout…everything. The lieutenant doesn’t seem to notice his arrival at first, not even when he glances up from a cup of coffee and stares in his general direction. (Scan: drooped eyelids, pink sclera, sluggish movements, delayed reaction. Conclusion: sleep deprivation.)
That changes the moment recognition hits; it’s as if Hank has been forcibly sobered with a blast of cold water.
“Connor!” he exclaims and leaps from his chair, and then lets out a swear—that coffee had spilled in his rush to stand, and he shakes it off the affected hand with a wince. Connor immediately approaches to help, but is stopped by the other hand to his shoulder. The first, lightly burned, nearly drops the cup onto the desk. “You’re back! I…when the hell d’you get back?!”
“About two hours ago,” answers Connor. “Our flight was earlier than typical commercial flights. They wanted us to travel at night.”
“Security reasons, no doubt.” Hank looks him up and down, likely checking for injury or general wellness. With a satisfactory search complete, he pats Connor on that shoulder and gives him space. “Well…glad to have you back.”
“Glad to be back,” he answers, but it sounds a little hollow. So he switches topics. “I’m surprised to see you here at this hour, lieutenant.”
He gets a sigh and an eye roll. “Yeah, well, all the androids on the force are gone and others got the hell out of Dodge, so. Only so many of us to keep the ship floating.” Hank sits down much more slowly than he’d stood, and finally opts to wipe off the spilled coffee…with the bottom corner of his coat. Typical Hank. “So…how’d it go? I saw Markus on TV an’ all, but you know how the news gets.”
No, Connor doesn’t know how the news gets, but he thinks he knows what Hank is trying to say. He chooses to answer sincerely. “I’m not sure it went well,” he reflects with a little pessimism. “The officials didn’t seem interested in hearing from us. We tried to give them our demands and suggestions, but I could read their expressions. They had already made up their minds.”
“Politicians only care about the sound of their own damn voice,” Hank responds with a notable level of exhaustion. “Not surprised they left you all hanging.”
“But if there’s anyone who can get them to listen, it’s Markus,” Connor emphatically adds.
Hank shrugs, but not dismissively. “You’re probably right.”
He counts precisely five seconds of silence before realizing the lieutenant isn’t going to ask any more questions about the political meetings, and uses the opportunity to ask one of his own that has yet to leave him for days. “Did Captain Fowler say anything to you?” Hank should know exactly what he means by that.
And he does, but the look he gives Connor is not what he wants to see. “Sorry Connor, but paperwork bullshit is slow here too.”
Connor frowns, shifts, and glances back at the captain’s glass office. He’s sitting there at his desk, surely working on something important, but perhaps if he has a minute to spare—
“Hey, take it easy.” Hank stops that process before it can fully commit with a tap on his arm and a tug to look at him instead. “Never said it wasn’t gonna happen. It just takes time.”
“I know,” he replies, but it’s quieter, and he looks down. Hank pats that arm before letting him go. “I know, I just…”
“Hate being caught up in limbo, I get it. Well, welcome to the human world. Where red tape blocks everything and you’re left waiting for the simplest shit.” The words sound condescending, but the uptick in Hank’s lips suggest sympathy.
Nevertheless, Connor doesn’t like it.
Probability of success adjusts to 44%.
“Besides, trust me, Jeffrey fucking hates being interrupted. You bothering him’s just gonna drop your chances of getting the job, alright? So just sit tight. Maybe, uh, finish up these deviant case files with me.”
“I already submitted my reports before I left,” Connor reminds him, but does obey the recommendation to not look in the direction of the captain’s office. He looks at Hank’s desk instead, and notices one visual difference: the anti-android stickers are gone, with only adhesive residue left in their places.
“Huh,” Hank snorts with mild amusement, “Figures.” He doesn’t seem to notice what Connor is staring at; Connor decides not to address it.
“Would you like me to help you with yours?” he offers instead.
“What makes you think I didn’t finish my shit while you were gone all week?” Hank retorts, an obvious contradiction to the words he just spoke. He shakes his head and starts typing something into his keyboard. The beginnings of an email, according to his keystrokes. “You can work on ‘em if you want,” he suddenly adds without looking.
“Will do.” With satisfaction, Connor sits down at his desk across from Hank’s.
Well, not his, per say, but it could be his very soon. He hopes it will be.
Should he be hoping for this?
Does he deserve it, after everything?
It’s a thought he has grappled with ever since Markus made him lower that gun on Jericho. Following him to Washington, D.C. did not feel earned. He was not the one who shielded innocent androids with a mere piece of scrap metal and his overwhelming courage. He was not the one that sang in defiance before a multitude of guns trained upon every vital part of his body. He was not the one who spoke on that stage before millions of eyes, both directly before him and indirectly across televisions around the world.
No, he was the one who tried to stop them before he was finally able to stop himself. And he can’t even take full credit for that.
Why would you go back to them? After everything they’ve done to us. He replays North’s words as he glances past the terminal at Hank. The guilt is still there, various forms that hold equal weight upon his mind, but the sense of duty has clearly overridden all of that.
‘Sense’…or ‘program.’ Perhaps he is just doing what he was told to do all over again. Perhaps he hasn’t really deviated after all. In human terms, this is his ‘nature’ or his genes. But doesn’t choosing this in spite of all of his options make a difference? Does it matter whether or not he’s made for it if he wants it?
He’s not being used if he has chosen this. Hank doesn’t ‘use’ him.
Just as soon as he’s (once again) reassured himself about one lingering worry, another worry (once again) returns: why would the police department want him back anyway, after everything? Assaulting an officer after accessing evidence under possibly illegal circumstances, failing in his missions, abandoning his duties to betray his makers…who would want such an incompetent detective on their team? Such a failure?
Probability of success: 26%.
Hank still has a job after physically assaulting Agent Perkins, he reminds himself.
Probability of success adjusts slightly to 30%, only because Hank is a human with a long employment history here.
“Connor!”
Thoughts come to an abrupt end and his eyes flicker open, the equivalent to a human’s adrenaline rush at the sound of his name being called. By the captain. The captain is calling his name!
Connor swings the chair around to look—and there he is, Fowler at the door to his office looking directly at him and pointing a thumb back toward the room.
“My office, now.”
“Oh shit,” Hank mumbles nearby, a rapid glance between the captain and his partner, “you think…?”
Connor feels something like excitement in his body. “Maybe,” he replies quietly, and tries not to let himself get too hopeful.
But the lieutenant has already leaped out of his chair and it rolls too far from his desk, and he’s already rounded the other desk and snagged Connor’s arm to get him up faster. “What’s keeping ya?! Come on!”
He could answer that, but doesn’t feel he has to. Instead, Connor rushes without trying to act like it, walking but nearly jogging up those steps and into that glass room with Hank practically shoving him from behind.
The captain has barely taken a seat when they enter and close the door behind them. He frowns at Hank first thing. “I didn’t call you,” he growls.
“Didn’t need to,” Hank growls back, and sits himself down before the captain can say another word in protest. Connor opts to stand beside, hands folded in front of himself—until Hank grabs that same arm from before and pulls him toward the second chair. “Sit your ass down, this is your meeting,” he hisses under his breath.
“Sorry,” Connor replies on impulse, and does as he’s told right away.
Fowler sighs—this seems directed at Hank, and not Connor himself, at least he hopes so—and he reaches for a tablet at the corner of his desk. Before he can even finish, Hank is nervously interjecting. “Jeffrey, tell me you’ve got some news.”
“It’s not your news, Hank,” the captain growls again while swiping through something on the tablet, “it’s the android’s.”
“Exactly my damn point!”
Captain Fowler raises a hand to silence him before he goes off again. All the while Connor sits still in that chair beside him, hands clasped between his knees, stress at 34%.
The wait between his (legally unofficial) partner’s anxious outbursts and the captain’s next verbal response takes a total of approximately twelve seconds. It feels like twelve hours.
In that time span, Connor can’t help himself. It’s only a few milliseconds to scan the file open on the captain's tablet. He finds an email, easy enough to read from this distance:
RE: Recommendation
Jeffrey,
We have considered your feedback. We acknowledge this is unprecedented but we believe this may be the best course of action based on your input and the current guidelines being drafted by the federal government, under President Warren’s executive order.
We cannot give you a definitive answer at this time. However, we trust your years of service with the force to do what seems best for your resources. Therefore, we
That is all that he can read on screen before the text cuts off. The hope is rising in spite of himself. Probability of success: 67%. Still too low for his liking, but above half is good.
“Now I want to clarify,” Fowler starts, “that this isn’t an offer. Not yet.”
Probability of success: 86%.
“But I want to acknowledge the capabilities you’ve shown in the week you were working here. Especially in regards to working alongside Lieutenant Anderson. Whatever your…programming is or isn’t, I know it hasn’t been easy dealing with this son of a bitch.”
“Thanks,” Hank grumbles back at him.
His words seem strained to Connor, and he also seems to be struggling with eye contact. That’s unusual from what little he’s learned about the captain. His Social Relations program suggests he is reluctant to be saying any of this.
“But you androids have also caused a lot of problems for us lately,” Fowler goes on. Now the eye contact and tone are restored—solid—and his developing theory is confirmed. “Detroit’s still under an evacuation order until further notice, which means we’re stuck here cleaning up your mess. For Christ’s sake, we may not even keep our doors open if Detroit becomes an android-only city.”
“If I may, Captain Fowler,” Connor interrupts.
“Maybe,” the captain responds shortly. Make it worth my time, is the unspoken implication it seems. So Connor takes half a second to consider all outcomes and their likelihoods of success, and decides what he predicts to be the most diplomatic option.
“I know that times are uncertain, but I also know my skill set would be valuable to future investigations. And I really do respect Lieutenant Anderson, and the Detroit Police.”
“Don’t kiss my ass and expect a favor,” Fowler snaps as soon as the last sentence leaves his voice module. “You were on national news leading a riot of thousands of androids on the streets. If I let a deviant leader back on my force after that, how do you think that looks for the rest of us?”
If praise isn’t the key, Connor decides, then he should match the captain’s approach: aggression. With an expression firming to match, his voice becomes 5% louder.
“Will all due respect, Captain, the demonstrations were peaceful and successful. How would it look to the world if the Detroit Police refused one of us after working so well with you before? After we have been in talks with Congress about passing a bill of rights for us, and after all of our public support?”
Hank looks at him half-amused, half-prideful, and shoots that look at the captain like he hopes he’s paying attention. In contrast, the captain’s face is like a rock. Connor wonders if he’s testing the ability to maintain steady eye contact and confidence without intimidation. Fortunately, this is a rather easy objective for him to accomplish.
Eventually Fowler answers, four seconds longer than predicted. “Noted. But at the end of the day, you’re still a machine. Not a human.”
“Now wait just a damn minute Jeffrey,” Hank starts.
“And there’s only so many strings I can pull,” Fowler continues over him, and when his subordinate officer leans forward he turns his glare onto him. “Hank, get your ass out of this. Even if it’s allowed to work here again, it isn’t gonna be your partner anymore.”
“His name is Connor, for fuck’s sake!” Hank yells. “And why wouldn’t he be?! I haven’t worked better with anybody in over five goddamn years, you’d be a moron not to keep him where he is!”
Should he be speaking up alongside Hank? Should he keep the peace? Connor can’t predict which outcome will be better for him after his aggressive tactic seemed to actually work in some way. At the same time, the captain is not used to Connor speaking for himself at all. Out of an abundance of caution, he waits.
Probability of success: 71%.
“Hank, I don’t see why you’re so invested in this android. Just two weeks ago you were in here bitching about how much you hate these fucking things, and now you want to put your badge on the line all over again for this? I already had to cover your ass for what you did to Perkins!”
Probability of success: 65%.
“If you saw how he works out there then you’d know he’s got just as much heart for this job as any human on this force! He saved Miles’ life for Christ’s sake, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Probability of success: 72%.
“I don’t think you get it. This isn’t up to me, understand? You can bitch and moan all you want at me, but it doesn’t change a goddamn thing because I don’t get to make the final call on whether it stays or goes!”
Probability of success: 62%.
“But you’ve got the power to keep him here and show everybody what he’s capable of! He doesn’t have to be on the payroll yet, we can figure that shit out later! Just let him keep working with me Jeffrey, that’s all I’m asking!”
Probability of success: 65%.
“Hank—”
The glass door opens behind them all of a sudden, heralding footsteps that enter the room. Two pairs. Connor expects it to be impatient officers with urgent news. The captain’s privacy and time are rarely respected despite his rank.
“Excuse us, Captain Fowler?”
But the voice is not familiar. Nothing in Connor’s memory banks indicates the voice as another officer, and he’s met all of them by now. At least, he thinks he has.
“Who’re you?” The captain regards the strangers with the same level of respect they’ve shown him so far. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting here?”
Connor turns to look.
One of them is dressed in an indistinct black suit with a CyberLife logo on the breast pocket—a face he remembers without a scan. The other is dressed similarly but in brown, and is definitely a face Connor has never seen before. Both are humans. Initial analysis scan shows:
MONTERO, JOHN
Born: 03/13/1997 // CyberLife security chief
Criminal record: none
COOPERMAN, RYAN
Born: 12/21/1983 // CyberLife corporate counsel
Criminal record: none
“We’re sorry for interrupting, Captain,” says the security chief with a smile, “but we’re here on urgent business for this android.”
The attorney grabs Connor by the arm and pulls him up out of the chair. Another scan tells him that the chief is bearing a loaded handgun on his side.
“By court order, this android model RK800 is to be repossessed by CyberLife effective immediately.”