finalflight | PSL; [It's bigger than us, it's bigger than everything]

Well, if it isn't th' man of the hour.

[Hank puts a hand on his knee and starts to stand to go around the side of the house toward Connor. He changes his mind when his waving hand, reaching out for something steady, catches the newly-repaired kitchen window and accidentally slides it closed with a loud thump. He'll just lean against this wall for a while.]

Hey! Back here.

You plastic fuck.

[He calls out the first and mutters the second, resentful of this particular evening and all his reasons for it, resentful of this whole damn period in his life, the period since this fucking android came into it who didn't even have the decency to be an automaton like the rest of them, or even just an asshole. He feels guilty the moment he says it, and takes another deep drink to wash down the... The... What the fuck's the word?]

Cognitive dissonance. That's it. What a motherfucker.

[Hank’s voice carries from around the other side of the house, and Connor looks over for a moment, brow furrowing. Without delay, he walks over to the very familiar kitchen window (now fixed, apparently), each step feeling like a strange exercise in deja vu, if androids experienced such a thing.

His form comes into view, framed by that of the glass. It’s shut, he notes, and when Connor gets close enough, he leans in — almost squinting at the sight before him. He spots Hank, assumes that his mood is irritable (the insult) and that his state may or may not be inebriated (the early departure from work, hastening home; it didn’t take an investigative RK800 unit to know that the excuse of gastrointestinal woes was likely a farce).]

Lieutenant.

[Connor shifts slightly, to get a better view inside. His face is nigh pressed to the glass, straining to see the rest of the kitchen — no apparent signs of playing “Russian roulette”. That’s good, a step above when he had found him drunk out of his mind last time, but the situation is still generally unfavorable.

Connor taps lightly on the kitchen window with his knuckles, eyes skating over to Hank. Through the pane, he hears something about cognitive dissonance, which only furthers the theory that Hank had gone home to deal with his problems the only way the man knew how: drinking. And drinking more.]

May I come in?

[His LED blinks, casting light off of smooth glass. If he strains to look, he could see his own reflection, staring back at him with a mildly concerned frown.]

[Hank shifts around to lean next to the window to instead of on it, settles himself well enough that he won’t tip over, and slides the window up, making a wide and welcoming sweep with his arms like an old butler. Seeing Connor in the flesh - the plastic, the super sophisticated metal alloy, whatever - makes him feel even more restless, and the feeling directs itself into a sarcastic smile, a sharp edge or two at the corners of his voice.]

Welcome, monsieur, to my humble abode. What ‘cha interrupting your good old Cyberlife testing to come over here for? Come to slap the shit outta me again?

[He had meant, ideally, to enter through the door, but perhaps the fault is on him for not being specific. So, after a moment of looking at the open window, Connor ducks in. All long limbs as he clambers over the sill and into Hank's house, movement purposeful as always, and at least this time his entry is far more graceful than the last.

He even replies in the midst of it.]

I didn't return for testing today. [A correction, followed by an explanation.] I was...

[A moment, while both feet find purchase on the ground, and he straightens, looking at Hank, peering at him carefully.]

...looking for you. The department's caught wind of a case, potentially involving another deviant android. I thought I might find you at home, like I did the last time.

[And drunk again, like last time.]

[He hasn’t gone for testing. Does that mean he hasn’t reported back to Cyberlife, too? That they don’t know, yet, about all the questions Hank was asking? Then he can still...

Nothing. He can still nothing. What the fuck could he do even if he wanted to? He could work on the fuckin case. For a certain definition of “work on”.]

Ah. Need me to babysit you while you investigate. Got it. Why don’t you fill me in while I kill the rest of this.

[Hank shakes the bottle at Connor and then throws his head back for another swallow.]

[He watches the bottle gleam in the stark light of the kitchen, as Hank brings it to his lips. The furrow of his brow deepens, just slightly, likely easily missed by Hank given the state that he’s in. Connor steps forward, placing his hands behind his back and clasping them together.

He could, of course, give the man the details of the case. It was why he was here. But he’s drunk, probably needs time to sober up if that’s at all possible; and while Connor can be oblivious about many things, there are an equal amount of situations in which he is observant, thoughtful, and keen on making inferences and deductions when others may not realize it.

Point in case:]

Before we get to that, I need to ask you… Did I say something to upset you today?

[Broaching the subject with subtlety? Not Connor.]

[Hank gapes at him for a second and then closes his eyes, rubbing at his hair. There’s a reminder for him, if he’d forgotten it, of the tally that’s been keeping itself in Hank’s head; one category’s headed ‘automaton’ and the other one’s headed, ‘???’

Connor never obeys orders, especially not when obeying would be really, really convenient. This particular checkmark is sitting in the ‘???’ column.

Would he answer Connor, he wonders, even if he could? Nah. Probably not. But something about knowing that hearing the stuff going through Hank’s head would get Connor into a whole lot of trouble makes Hank resent not being able to.]

You don’t gotta say anything to upset me.

[Hank twists his face up, sour, regretful. It’s true, but he didn’t have to say it. He reaches out, wanting to pat Connor’s shoulder.]

Why’re you so worried about pissin me off anyway? Keepin me happy’s not your job.

[Hank should be a straightforward case. “Personal issues”, as Connor would call them, making the man cope in detrimental ways; he’s an android that does his research, of course, so he knows that it’s grief manifested, and that it’s blame, anger, and depression that informs a percentage of the man’s decisions and words.

Even so, he still finds himself confused by him. The remark is hard to parse — sarcasm? The gesture — patronizing or sincere? And the question — difficult to quantify. The cookie-cutter reply comes easily to him.]

Because keeping you happy results in you performing better at your job, and as a consequence, mine.

[(Of course, there’s only so far even Connor will go to be subservient. Sometimes the man just needs a slap in the face and to be dumped in the tub.)]

However, even if you don’t wish to directly respond to my question, I feel as if there is something that I need to clarify from earlier.

Bullshit.

[Because it is, that job performance stuff. It is bullshit. Hank's seen Connor at work too many times to think he needs Hank to do anything but hold his fuckin coat, if he's even allowed to take the damn thing off. ]

But sure, if you wanna change the subject. I'm easy.

[He glances at his table and chair, then slides down to sit where he had been, legs splayed on the floor, head back against the wall. The hand holding the bottle waves in a 'go on' gesture, then he takes another sip.]

Say whatever you want. Just gonna do it anyway, right?

[What he wants to say is firmly derailed by the look of Hank slumping against he wall and going in for another drink. Eventually, Connor does want to leave with the Lieutenant in tow, and he would much prefer to not have to shower him with cold water again to force him into sobriety.

He frowns, stepping closer directly in front of Hank. Crouching down, his hand comes out to grasp at the bottle in an attempt to pull it away. A gesture that speaks volumes, though Connor doesn’t have to say it: You’ve had enough for now.

Whether successful or not, he still plans on saying his piece.]

It’s crucial that I clarify this. What we talked about — about me lying to Cyberlife, implying a desire to not be deactivated — that was nothing more than a hypothetical, as I said. A conversation that meant nothing, and I don’t want it to sew doubts in your head about what kind of android I am, or will be. I didn’t mean for it to cause undue stress or even worry on your part.

[That is to say:] I’m not a deviant. I’m not becoming deviant. Please put these thoughts completely out of your mind. [Because that’s the issue, isn’t it? It must be.]

[And just like that all the sullen bullshit he was about to say, the protests about how it didn't matter if he showed up to a case drunk if he came with the boy wonder in tow, all the anger behind it- It's gone. It's gone from his face and it's gone from inside him, and his grip holding the bottle loosens enough that Connor could probably take it now, if he tried again, and Hank's surprised by his own voice when it comes out, all quiet and careful, almost gentle.]

I know. I know. Don't-

[Don't worry, he shouldn't say. 'Shouldn't' usually isn't a word he gives half a shit about but accusing Connor of worry will only make this worse, won't it?

Poor fuckin kid, he shouldn't say, and doesn't.]

'm not worried. About that. You were just- You don't wanna let the guys who made you down, I get that. I know. Don't think I'm gonna tell on you, or somethin. Why would I think you're anything but... but dedicated? It'd be hard to miss, you've been up my ass about getting this case done since day one.

[The bottle is his, then, pulled away slowly yet firmly. He can tell there’s not much left in it, by the feel of how it sloshes when he takes it.

Still, his eyes don’t leave Hank’s.]

Because you were quiet immediately after we spoke on the matter. You said only twelve words from that time until you left.

[What was he supposed to think?]

I assumed that was what was bothering you. And now I find you in... this state.

Well, assume something else. [The kick's starting to come back into Hank's voice. Not too much yet, maybe, but some, and he welcomes it. If Hank keeps talking to him like that, like he's a victim at some kind of crime scene, Connor's never going to believe him.] You think I need a reason to get blasted? You really haven't known me that long.

[He lifts his hand to take a drink, remembers he's not holding the bottle anymore, and makes a face, tapping his empty fist on his knee.]

Look, maybe I'm just...

[Maybe he's just? Just. Just what? He can practically hear that Jeopardy music in his head, because whatever he comes up with, he's going to have to come up with it fast.]

Maybe I'm just... Uh, worried about the case. I mean, you said it, we haven't really found that much. It's some fucked up shit, you know. What's been going on.

[Which part of it's so fucked... God, he misses that bottle already. He eyes it, sitting there in Connor's hand all unretrievable. He glares at it.]

[Sorry, Hank, but Connor’s not letting you have this alcohol back. Any more, and he’s of the belief that he’ll find himself passed out again on the kitchen floor.

And there’s the issue of believing what Hank is telling him. That his worry was based on the case, and none of what he says is an exaggeration — they are grasping for leads, because every case thus far hasn’t led them much closer to figuring out just what causes deviancy, and what to do about more and more rogue androids becoming a reality in Detroit.]

Much of what’s happened is unfortunate, yes.

[Connor seems to be taking a moment, deciding whether or not he should just accept that answer and move on. If there’s a ratio of trust versus doubt, a calculation he can run in his mind, to help him decide if Hank is telling the truth about why he’s hit the bottle this evening.

And then, finally, he stands. He offers him a hand up, if he’ll take it.]

But maybe tonight’s case will be more promising in regards to leads.

[Hank scoffs.]

Yeah, maybe.

[And maybe pigs'll fly outta my butt, he almost says, but there's making a lie believable and there's taking it too far, and if the kid's really dug up some hope that he's not going to be thrown in the junkyard over this case, maybe Hank should let him keep it. So instead of saying that he takes Connor's hand and heaves on it, getting his legs all right under him and trying to keep the grip on Connor's hand until he's sure his balance is settled right.]

You know where my keys are, right? If you're that ready to go, maybe you can just fill me in on the way.

[He nods, making sure Hank is steady on his feet. He does know where the keys are.]

Right. If you think you’re in a reasonable state to think clearly and critically when we arrive there.

[Lucidity is important, after all.]

[Hank laughs.]

Just when I start to forget about the stick stuck up your ass-

[Should he say that? Should he not say that? This secrecy shit is complicated, and he is drunk, and when it comes to the issue of talking about Connor like he's a real ~~deviant~~ boy, Hank can't figure out where the boundaries are.]

[Fuck it. He'll know the boundaries when he hits them.]

[He doesn't know why Hank pauses. It's not like the man had been particularly hesitant to sling expletives his way before.

More evidence pointing towards the Lieutenant acting odd, but maybe it's too early to make any solid judgments regarding that just yet. There is the off-chance that Connor is being too scrutinizing, too over-analyzing. It's as Hank said just moments before: he really hasn't known him for that long in the grand scheme of things.

And so, eventually, Connor will find himself in the driver seat of Hank's car. He explains to him the details of the case as he knows it. An android gone deviant after having been brought in for the installation of modifications on the cheap, which usually equates to them being highly illegal or otherwise questionable because of their instability. Connor thinks this case is different enough from the others that they might garner a new perspective they hadn't gleaned before. And if they're lucky (he hopes they are), a lead will finally rear its ugly head and give them something to work with.

He gives the name and address, easily recited. Though it isn't far, and they're already nearly there.]

[Hank opens the door once they get there and leans on his knees, rubbing at the side of his face. Then he stands and holds onto the top of the car until his body realizes where down is. It's not that bad; just bad enough that he probably should take a second, not bad enough that he really needs to. But before he's really done it he catches sight of a face that's weirdly familiar.]

Dave! Hey! Over here!

[Hank waves him over, taking a step forward and wobbling a little.]

Heyyyyy. Fuck. Haven't seen you in... What's it? How long?

[A thin man with graying hair and rolled up sleeves glances at the uniformed officers nearby, then wanders toward them. There are spots of blue across one hand, and on the tips of his fingers.]

Hank? What the hell, man? And with your own android? You finally came around to living in the future and you didn't call me? I coulda got you a...

[He squints at the model number on Connor's jacket and then looks him up and down.]

A RK800? I never seen your model before. RK800, tell me your functions.

Edited (code) 2018-08-02 09:23 (UTC)

[By the time Connor has stepped out of the car and the man named Dave has made his way over, he’s already scanned his face and cross-referenced it against his own internal database. He’s already noted the blue on his fingertips, and the obvious friendliness with Hank.

And he replies without missing a beat.]

My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife to aid the DPD.

[One must always start off with a cursory sort of introduction, apparently. He doesn’t seem to care that Dave didn’t ask for a name specifically.]

I was created to more specifically assist in the investigations regarding potential deviant androids. Functions include: scanning, analyzing, and reconstruction of a crime scene. Sampling of biological and certain non-biological material in real time. Probability prediction of events and outcomes. Vocal mimicry. An advanced social module to help me work more harmoniously with humans — including negotiation, and in some cases, interrogation.

[A pause.]

As well as any other baseline functions found in non-prototype androids.

Huh.

[He turns back toward Hank after one last assessing look.]

A loaner. So, have you changed your mind about all this sci-fi shit? Or are you gonna go back to busting my balls about messing around with creepy dolls for a living?

[Hank is very aware of Connor near him. He might’ve gone all ‘beep boop I am Connor the detective robot (many other functions)’ a second ago but that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. Like a little kid that way. Just when you think they’re not paying attention and you can let your mouth slip...

Fuck, nevermind. He’s got questions to he’s supposed to be asking. Probably. If he can think of any.]

I’m just doing my job, Dave. So uh, you were there when uh, when that android freaked out?

[Dave nods, glancing back at the cops at the building behind him before he answers in a low voice.]

Yeah, I just turned its tracker off and was about to install some programs when it just... I hadn’t started yet though, I swear. I didn’t do anything to it.

[Hank casts around his slow, dumb brain for whatever the follow up to that should be. Does he press Dave on whether he’s full of shit, or does he go with it and just ask about something that else? If Dave is lying and freaks out and runs, there’s no way Hank’s going to be able to keep up. If he’s not lying and gets ticked about not being believed Hank doesn’t think he remembers enough about the guy to calm him down again, especially not right now. Shit, hadn’t he agreed to come here because he thought Connor would be able to handle all of it? Had he told Connor that?]

Right. So, right, uh...

[Connor is listening, of course, even if he’s transitioned into that very discernible state of his: the ability to stand quietly, detached, not interrupting as the humans talk. But while he listens, there is processing happening in the blinking of his LED. That much he can’t hide; his eagerness to examine the scene where this apparent installation was going to take place, tonal hills and valleys of both of the men, the queueing of important questions that one should always ask while on a case like this.

The queue of important questions that one should always ask while on a case like this, Hank.

It’s not protocol that he’s delegated to the backseat of any investigation they undertake, though it had always a truth in his mind that he was here to assist Hank, rather than guide him about from clue to clue. The Lieutenant had plenty experience doing this long before Connor even existed, so there was no need. But the man is petering out, he can hear it. All the drinking didn’t do him any favors, and already something is bothering Connor about what he hears.

And so he steps forward, speaking up, eyes purposefully not casting down to the Thirium on Dave’s hands (yet).]

Can you tell us what model of android it was, and what you were planning to install?

Uh, ST300. I kept telling the guy he should just buy another kind of android, but he was really set on that one. I guess eloping with your dad's receptionist is more exciting than just buying one of those companion models. Kids, huh?

[He says that last to Hank, who sort of smiles a little in response.]

It was just a behavioral mod, though. Tricky job, he didn't want me to just swap in code from a WR400 or something, he wanted it to be "all her". Once he got 'her' into whatever idyllic little countryside he was planning on running away to, away from Cyberlife and dad and everybody, that tune woulda changed real fast. But hey, guy had the money.

[Hank frowns. His voice is more alert, now, his gaze is sharper.]

You can do that? I mean, I knew you can't track em when they go deviant, but you can turn it off before that? Hide em from Cyberlife and everybody?

[Dave raises his eyebrows, not expecting the question.]

Oh yeah. I said I turned the thing off the ST300 already, didn't I? But yeah, it's easy. That's why it's the first thing I did.

[The set of Connor's brow furrows, listening. The change of Hank's tone is noted, but he sees it as a favorable thing -- focus, maybe, returning to the Lieutenant now that they were unravelling the story properly.

So, if they're to take this at face value, the tale is straightforward enough. An ST300 gone deviant, before the installation of certain behavioral mods could be applied. Tracker already gone, though it was a moot point now.

(There's something ironic, he thinks, about his client wanting it to be "all her" and yet willing to install something that tweaks and twists and changes core personality. Connor doesn't remark on it.)

Still, he's not done with his questions.]

What kind of behavioral modifications?

Love. [Dave gives Connor a crooked, amused grin.] I figured aping some seduction protocols from some other models would be close enough, but the guy kept talking about it like it was the real thing so I just let him think whatever he wanted. Hey, maybe that's what made it lose its mind, huh? The first touch of a real emotion make you guys's heads explode?

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