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

[It’s funny how easily Connor can manage the look of being unimpressed simply by not responding to the derailment of “jokes”. Because that’s all it is, and it’s information that’s discarded immediately in his mind. Dave might as well have said nothing at all.

And Hank... well. Connor knows the difference between sincere insult and the usual tactics of questioning, of putting on pressure even outside of the interrogation room. So he continues as if those words were nothing as well.]

You said it yourself, “the first touch of real emotion”. Implying that you did — or at least attempted to — install a modification that would simulate something like affection.

[He gives him no chance to reply, to interrupt. He gestures at Dave’s hands.]

Your hands are stained with Thirium. Was there a struggle? Did she fight against you?

[Dave looks to Hank again.]

[Hank shrugs.] Thirium runs through very specific parts of an android's body, Dave. And this guy, your customer, I bet he couldn't handle those mods if they made it look like you were hurting his baby. So where'd you get those stains on your hands, man?

[Dave spreads out his hands, looks down at them like he's seeing them for the first time and is outraged at what he sees. He looks up to Connor, his mouth open and ready for something defensive and angry to spill out of it. Then his shoulders slump, and he looks back at Hank.]

They'll have my ass, you know that. Trackers are one thing, but modifying their code? Their intellectual property? Cyberlife'll sue the shirt off my back. You know all the forms I had to sign when they fired me? Their lawyers will destroy me. I'll lose my business, I'll lose everything.

[Body language parsed and analyzed, the spike of frustration and then something shaped like resignation. Connor deigns it a good time to cut in once more.]

Normally, you’d be right. A company like Cyberlife wouldn’t hesitate to throw the book at an ex-employee breaking the terms of a contract. They’ve done it plenty of times before.

[He lets that settle for a moment.]

But this is a unique case. The deviant issue is becoming all too prevalent, and if your experiences with this android can offer even the smallest amount of insight regarding what causes this phenomenon, I’m certain they would be willing to be more... lenient.

However, that’ll only happen if you tell us the truth.

[Hank can see the hope in Dave's eyes as Connor talks. He can see the guy fighting with himself, debating, but that hope- It's true, that you can practically taste the moment an interview's cracked. You can feel it in the air. Hank's not sure about a lot of things about Connor, but the guy is definitely, definitely good at his job.]

[Dave shakes his head, looks at Hank, and lets out a quiet sigh. Then he looks back at Connor.]

My code was good. I know it was. So it couldn't have been me, it couldn't. But it just fought the install- freaked the hell out, started, uh- It broke a lot of my equipment. So I was just trying to keep it from breaking anything else, right? I paid good money for those tools. And the guy, he jumped in. Fuckin moron. The EMTs wouldn't tell me how he was, but if he pulls through you bet your ass he won't be writing poetry for some cute piece of plastic tail anymore. Once you seen one go haywire it kinda ruins the illusion, you know?

If, uh... If it'll help keep my name out of all this I might be able to dig up the program I wrote up. You know. If I can remember where I saved it.

[He listens intently, imagining the scenario in his mind. Connor wonders if it was the code itself, causing something to trigger, or if the android was already inclined to become a deviant, something else already nestled in its mind. Like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the opportunity to go off.

Was having its programming jumbled up and rewritten a stressor? Connor tries to imagine how he might react if he were in a similar— No. Never mind.

He sets his jaw, casts a cursory look at Hank. Then continues, looking back at Dave.]

You’ll remain anonymous. But we would like to look at this program, and take a look at where all this transpired.

[Dave does still resist a moment, but seems to realize there's no point to it. He makes a face, shrugs, and nods over toward the building the uniformed officers have been guarding.]

In my office. Over here.

[Hank starts walking with him, his eyes darting over to Connor and then back again. It should be safe to ask this, just make sure, even while Connor's here to listen. It sounds like it connects to the case.]

You're sure it only started once you started installing that program? It wasn't turning off that tracking thing?

[Dave gives a quick nod.]

Yeah, I'm sure. Done that about a dozen times, never had a problem.

Cool, good. That's good. [Hank sucks at his teeth, thinking about that a second.] Hey, Connor. How about I copy this program for you, while you go ask around and find out if Dave's customer is gonna be healthy enough for an interview? We could get lucky, he might be able to give one now.

[Connor’s eyes are already directed firmly at the building, looking like an android ready to investigate a crime scene — because he is. So when Hank suggests that he does otherwise, there’s a hitch in his step, and hesitation flashes over his features.

But then he nods, the logical part of him dictating that it would be good to get the client’s point of view if they’re able, and that Hank can cover the scene of the incident until he returns.]

...All right, Lieutenant.

[And with that, Connor will turn and head towards some of the other officers nearby, to question them accordingly. Hopefully they don’t terribly mind a somewhat persistent RK800 unit coming up to them out of the blue.]

[When Connor comes back up toward them he might see Hank through the shop's front window, aggressive, leaning forward into Dave's space and poking his chest. Dave scowls, clenches his fists, then leans back, putting his hands on Hank's shoulders to keep Hank still while he steps back from him. Dave nods, the movement brief and irritated, and scribbles something on the one pad of post-it notes in the office, with the one actual ink pen in probably the whole block, given how widely used they aren't. Hank shoves the post-it note in his pocket and turns, seeing Connor and freezing for a second. Then his surprise changes to a quick smile and he steps away from Dave, opening the office's front door.]

Connor. Hey. What did you find out?

[It’s a sight impossible to miss, the body language seen clearly through the shop window. At first, it has Connor worried, leaving him wondering if there was going to be an altercation, but things take an interesting turn when Dave writes something down and hands it to the Lieutenant. That sparks curiosity in Connor’s mind, and when he’s let in, his look is obviously scrutinizing Dave and Hank both.]

...Apparently, he’s still in critical condition. It’ll be a while before we’re permitted to see him, though it’s still something we should consider when we’re able.

[Eyes flick to Dave, then to Hank again. The smile the man wears is... odd.]

What did you learn?

Ah. [Hank shrugs and holds up a usb drive. A little old fashioned, but useful.] Got the program. Obviously I can't make heads or tails of it.

[He turns back toward Dave and his smile goes tight, his voice goes all pointed.]

So we're going to come back if we find anything. And if Dave thinks of anything else, he's gonna call us. Right?

[Dave sighs, then takes a moment to study Connor, looking him up and down. Then he leans on his desk and waves them away.]

Yeah. Yeah, you got it, Hank. Now if you don't mind, I got a lot of cleaning up to do. So- [With a tight smile of his own Dave tilts his head toward the door.]

[For maybe the first time tonight, what Hank wants and what his old friend wants line up. He moves to leave, holding the usb drive out toward Connor.]

So. Where to now? The station to read this, or are you finally going to let me get some fuckin sleep?

[He gives Dave one more scrutinizing look before allowing himself to be ushered out, vaguely disappointed that he didn’t get the opportunity to look around; not that it would matter, if it’s all just knocked over equipment from an unexpected struggle. But his curiosity seems to be redirected easily enough to the USB, and Connor takes it from Hank. He turns it over in his fingers. Old technology. He’ll have to look for an adapter, or some kind of reader, for it back at the station.]

If you’re tired, I can drive you back home and return to the station afterwards. I want to see what’s on this.

[He slips it into his pocket for now, lips thinning. As they walk, a bit of his stiffness has dissipated, the slow draining away of his “detective robot RK800” demeanor into something more familiar with Hank.]

What were you and Dave speaking about while I was gone?

Um.

[Hank pulls a face at the question, ducking his head and rubbing hard at his eyes. For some reason it's only once the cold hits him that the intended end point of all the drinking earlier that night starts to hit him, and he realizes he's passed the fun part of drunk while he wasn't looking and now - now that the arguing's over, maybe - he's hit the 'fall asleep and don't dream about anything' part.

Connor's fault, distracting him with crimes and with- and with being a crime, or being the victim of one, or something. What a pain in the ass.]

We were, uh. He didn wanna help. Didn't wanna get involved. So I told him he was our one expert consultant, cause I sure as hell didn't trust Cyberlife. So, uh. Guess that worked.

So you're gonna read that code with your eyes, right? Not by, uh- [He waves a hand around near his head.] like, with your brain? I jus thought, uh, better to put it somewhere isolated, not download it on my phone, because y'know. Might be somethin fucked up on it. Same general, uh, general... principle, I guess, with you, right?

[Can Hank hear the rush of silence that floods in between them? It’s only a few seconds’ worth at best, but it’s the sort that Connor employs when he’s obviously judging whether a reply is good enough (or too weak) to accept. Often heard in the confines of the interrogation room, not between himself and Hank.

And then — blessedly, because he’s not forgotten about the handwritten note, only choosing not to pursue it because shouldn’t he trust Hank? But how his detective-like impulses scream against it — he only replies to the question at hand.]

It’s a very outdated way to store data. [The USB he means. It’s like a smartphone trying to connect to a record player.] I’m unable to interface with it “with my brain”, and I wouldn’t want to risk corrupting any of my data, especially regarding personality.

[He says it like it wouldn’t be the first thing he would’ve done in his enthusiasm to find a lead for the deviant case, if the code had been presented to him in a much less archaic way.]

[Hank does not hear that silence. Hank is too occupied with thinking about how the conversation with Dave had really gone down, kind of still trying to shake off Dave’s voice saying, You want me to- what? What the fuck, Hank, you too? Of all people? Did I wke up in the goddamn Twilight Zone?]

Good, good. ‘S some freaky shit, isn’t it? Tryin to make someone feel what you want em to, for you. An android, I mean. Freaky with humans too, kinda get that with them sometimes. Don’t know why people think they’ll have any more luck with machines when you can’t even do it with a person...

[He rubs his face and pulls his hand up through his hair, trying to wake himself up a little. It doesn’t go well; he puts a foot wrong and stumbles, a little too far from the car to use that as a handy Hank-catcher.]

[Androids don't feel, is the response that doesn't need to be said. So many times has it been his rebuttal that it's just an implied thing, hanging over them like a shadow, filling in the empty space with words that they both know is flickering through Connor's mind.

Besides, no time to reply, not with Hank stumbling forward, too far from the car to use it as something to brace himself against. Connor moves quickly, in that inhuman way of his, to shift facing the Lieutenant and throwing out his arms to steady him in the best way he can.]

Lieutenant- [An exhale of breath, a tiny ingrained human-like quirk. Picked up or pre-programmed is anyone's guess.] Hank. You really shouldn't drink so much.

[Another reiteration, something he's said more than once before, but never does it catch and settle in the other.]

Yeah, well. [Hank holds onto Connor’s arms for a second, getting his feet under him.] When the department can’t get me, they just send someone else. Figures the only guy stupid enough to drag me in at night’s a goddamn android.

Besides, I did okay, didn I? Walkin, talkin, mighta actually got some shit done. It’s just the last part of drunk’s hitting me all at once, ‘s all.

That's not the point. The department shouldn't have issues contacting you at all.

[But he supposes this isn't really the time for a lecture, nor is Connor really the lecturing type. Only the concerned application of the same advice over and over again, wondering why Hank can't see the reasoning behind his words. (But knowing why, all the same.)

Connor will keep holding onto Hank until the man rights himself properly.]

Of course you did "okay". But imagine the clarity you could possess if you weren't inebriated.

Don’t have to imagine. [Okay. Feet: under him. Ground: solid. Car: right there. Hank steps away from Connor, pats him on the shoulder in thanks, then makes his way toward it.] My memory still works. ‘M not that old. If you wanted to work with that guy, I got some bad news for you.

[Hank keeps a hand on the car as he makes his way around it, plopping into the passenger seat and letting his head fall back against the headrest with a relieved sigh. He doesn’t open his eyes to see if Connor’s in listening range, just keeps going and if Connor hears it he hears it.]

You’re goin about this all wrong if you wanna work with someone like that anyway. Let me dig my own grave deep enough and maybe Fowler’ll change his mind, put you with someone else after all.

[He hears it, even as he walks around to the driver's side once Hank is seated. Opens the door, scoots in, closes it. Doesn't start the car just yet, only turning his body to look at him.]

I don't wish to work with someone else. You're my partner, and I'm allowed to be concerned for both your health and how it affects both of our jobs.

Yeah?

[Hank cracks his eyes open and, for a second, just looks at him. He was going to try not to push this, the whole emotion thing. Wasn’t he? But fuck it. Connor’s the one who brought it up. And if all this shit Hank's just set into motion is going to be worth it, he actually wants to know.]

Even though it’d be more efficient to work with a partner you didn’t have to drag around? You sure it’s logical, to waste time being all concerned about me?

[The response to that is so immediate that Connor might as well be a caricature of himself. The quick circling of his LED, the way he brings his focus to starting the car. The engine stutters to life.]

We've worked several cases together. I would rather not have to start from a blank state, trying to build a new relationship with another officer.

[The topic of emotion and concern (he should've used a different word, he knows that now) is like a magnet that pushes Connor away from it. Always dancing around the concept at a safe distance; manageable, vague. Non-committal.

But even so, it settles wrong on his tongue, on his mind. Twisting Hank up in his processing as just some statistic, a progress bar that he doesn't want to reload, just doesn't seem to encompass his true thoughts on the matter.

Connor grips firmly at the steering wheel, but they still have yet to drive off.]

...That being said, is it wrong to be concerned? I would like to consider us on relatively friendly terms, but if I've overstepped my bounds in saying so, you should let me know.

[That gets Hank's eyes to open all the way up and he sits forward, leaning on his elbows. Cononr's started the car, but he isn't driving it yet; he's invested. He really wants to know.]

Are you... asking me... if it's okay to worry about me?

[Programmed to do about a billion calculations a second, and the guy can't even pick up his own contradictions. This answer's going to take a second to figure out.]

Well... Okay. I guess if you were human I'd tell you not to bother. But I know what a human wants, I know what they're expecting. But you, Connor? Shit, I don't know. When I don't get my shit together, and then I don't get my shit together, and a little while later - surprise! - I still haven't got my shit together, what are you gonna do? I mean, god knows I can't tell you what to do, you'll run your give-a-shit protocol all day if you want, or just whenever you really wanna start fuckin with my head, but I guess I just want to know what you want out of it. Do whatever you guys do instead of feel if you want, but what do you expect me to do about it?

[Some things remain impossible to pin down with numbers and algorithms and the vast network of subroutines that make up Connor's brain. These little terrible whispers that he can't put neatly into a box, categorize them, throw them into the depths of the false, electric ocean in his mind to let them drown and go away. It always floats back up, like flotsam sticking to the shore.

He believes he's miscalculated, taken the conversation towards another place which only keeps bringing in more of those considerations that he can't keep at bay. He shouldn't have said anything, his grip is steady on a steering wheel that hasn't moved yet, but here they are. The inside of Hank's car might as well a confessional, it feels like a hollowed out space where words are suddenly hard to form.

He's unravelling what Hank's reply is. Getting to the meat of it. Discarding the chaff, and the question is clear: what does Connor want out of any of this?]

I... [The word want is still full of burs and he drops it.] ....would prefer for you to be happy, healthy, and overall contented with your job, Hank. And I know it isn't something that I can say, and your mind can suddenly flip a switch, and all's better. The human brain doesn't work like that. It's full of too many connections that are cannot be turned off, too many pathways that lead to a myriad of associations.

[For a rare moment, he almost doesn't know where he was going with this line of thinking. He always has a point at the end. It's slipped past his fingers, it's so simple.]

And I know I can't change that. I'm just an android, programmed to say the right thing, to map out the most efficient way of tackling a case. To get on your good side so that percentages in efficiency rise by steady degrees. Just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.

[Words that should ring familiar.]

And yet beyond all of that, there is still the ancillary wish to see you feeling better. Can't it be that straightforward?

Edited 2018-08-03 21:22 (UTC)

It's not even that simple with humans, Connor. What makes you think it would be that simple with you?

[He sighs.]

My efficiency's never going to go up, Connor. But if you're really too lazy- [He eyes Connor here, pointedly.] -to work with someone else, sure, I'll help you accomplish your task. We'll work on the case. And when we solve it-

[He half-shrugs with the arm that's not holding him up.]

I guess it can be that straightforward for you, Connor, because you don't have to worry about what's going to happen afterward. You can just drag me outta my house, keep me from falling on my ass, and tell me you give a shit, and then you can fuck off back to big daddy Cyberlife, and that'll be it.

[He sits back, looking up at the ceiling of his car.]

So, sure. Do whatever you want. No skin off your nose.

[Lazy? The word feels like a slap to the face, after all he’s just said. That despite Hank’s myriad of issues, he chooses to work with him because of the fledgling relationship they’ve built — both work-centric and an undefined friendliness that Connor finds beneficial to both himself and possibly the other man.

But maybe he’s wrong, with how swiftly all of that is dismissed right under his feet.]

That has nothing to do with it. It’s irrelevant.

[That after the case is through, he can wipe his hands clean of his partner, and forget all they’ve done together. As if Connor’s self-proclaimed worry is just a thin veil he wears to propagate the success of the mission.

He thinks of the time that he said would be whatever Hank saw him fit to be. To fill the mould, to be a friend, or just a machine. He wonders if he can rein himself back in, all those little loose pieces that have fallen out of line, and go back to doing that.

Suddenly Connor feels as if he wants to get out of this car and just walk the rest of the way back to the station; just call Hank a cab and get him home that way.

But that would be irrational, inefficient. An actuator moves in his jawline. Connor puts the car into gear and begins to driving in earnest. Eyes forward, tone utterly, painfully even.]

I’m not certain what you want from me, Lieutenant.

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if connor would do something other than walk back to see hank let me know and i can edit

You’re good!

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