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

[bleps]

((ooc; cont. from here))

[Anything happening within the walls of Hank's house is now being shattered by the blaring of the doorbell. Once, twice, a third time for a bit longer. Less an actual doorbell and more of a buzzer, a harsh thing that is sure to grab the attention of anyone possessing a heartbeat within. The very obvious sign of someone (a certain RK800 unit) at the door, hoping to find the Lieutenant at his home if he cannot be located at his usual haunts. The sort that serves alcohol, mainly.]

Lieutenant?

[The voice should ring familiar, if not slightly muffled by the obstruction before him. Connor stands waiting, straight-backed, staring at the closed door like the obstacle it is to his entry. The usual curl of hair that falls across his forehead sways in the breeze as he waits, only half-patiently.]

Lieutenant! [The downwards cant of his head, just slightly, eyes averted to the side; the look of someone listening for noise within.] Are you home?

Comments

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank hasn't stopped feeling like he's on the wrong side of the interview table. This time it's that dilemma that gives you the sweet spot, that question they ask themselves that leads to their own confession: The cops know anyway, so won't it make things less shitty if I tell them?]

[Connor doesn't know what's up but he knows something is, and he's right. Partners should tell each other the big shit. Or, human partners should.]

[Fuck it. In for a penny, right? Besides, there's only so much room for self-delusion in this car. They should tell each other this shit. But-]

What if you're - hypothetically - what if one partner's safer if the other one keeps his mouth shut? Better off? Shouldn't the other one just... trust him? Shouldn't he just try to trust him?

[bleps]

[Well, if that’s supposed to make him feel better about all of this, it doesn’t. It just switches out one mode for another — irritation and the indignity at not being told the whole truth, at not being trusted, right back into that nettle of what he was talking about before. Concern.

Connor barely knows how to process so much flipping back and forth. Doesn’t know how to transition easily from one to the other without subroutines bending over backwards to accommodate what they were never programmed to do — deal with the complications of an RK800 unit moving from mind state to mind state so quickly that they hardly know what to do with themselves.

Because, especially now, there’s the realization that if Hank is keeping something to himself to protect him, he is causing the man undue trouble. He is potentially putting him in danger and doesn’t even know it; Connor doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even flinch, when faced with danger just around the corner. But to know that it’s Hank carrying some shapeless burden for his sake, something he can’t make out—

Connor goes quiet. For a long, long time, and it seems like he has nothing else to say, as the city glides past them through the window. It’s hard to tell if it’s condemnation or the slow, careful considering of how to approach this. His LED circles a steady blue.

It isn’t until they pull into Hank’s driveway, Connor putting the car in park and killing the engine, does he finally speak.]

I think you should tell me anyway.

[...is what he’s decided on.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets out a tired laugh.]

Of course you do.

[He runs his hands through his hair, wanting to sleep, wanting to be done, just for a little while.]

This’d probably have a chance, if I could. I’m the last person in the world who oughta be...

[He sighs.]

You gonna let me outta this car if I say no?

[bleps]

The choice is yours. I won’t keep you sequestered on your own driveway if you choose to not tell me what it is.

[And that’s not a lie. Connor can concede one thing with Hank that he won’t with perpetrators in an interrogation room: leeway. With the concept of trust being thrown back in his face, he’s vaguely aware he’d be a hypocrite not to.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank opens his mouth to say something, stops, remembers for the millionth time tonight that he’s trying not to push the emotion thing. He doesn’t want to push the guy so hard he has to report some kind of error to Cyberlife, but not pushing at all feels like letting the damn company have him. Maybe there’s a happy medium here.]

That’s a different tune from just fifteen minutes ago. Guess I’m lucky you decided you like me again.

[bleps]

[Connor just looks at him, lips pursed. Takes that as Hank declining to tell him, since it lacks an explanation.]

I don't like unknowns existing in concepts that are supposed to be devoid of them. It's as simple as that. But if you are asking for me to trust you, then I will.

[That's android speak for: our partnership has been nothing but transparent before, and I don't know how to feel about something being hidden, unclear, or uncertain about any of it. But fine, I guess.]

...Do you need assistance getting to or entering your home?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

I can open my own damn door.

[He opens the car’s door, swings his legs out, and just sits there. He takes a breath and half-looks over his shoulder.]

You trusting me with this, that... That means something.

God, I hope you don’t end up regretting it.

[Then he stands like his ass is on fire and hurries away toward his front door, not looking back.]

[bleps]

[Hank, that is so very the opposite of comforting.

But he says nothing as Hank leaves and heads away. Connor watches for a moment, then exits the car himself — he closes the door and moves over to the passenger’s side to do the same, since Hank just left his wide open in his hurry to retreat back to the house.

He frowns, his LED blinking as he wordlessly orders an automated cab to come pick him up. And in a few steps, Connor moves to the sidewalk, simply waiting for it, wordlessly, stoically, the way androids are apt to do.]

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank making it into the station by about half past ten the next morning actually turns a few heads - or maybe those heads turn because he looks terrible. Not too terrible, but the red eyes and the bags underneath them don't add anything good to his whole usual look. He plops into the chair in front of his desk, leans the side of his face against a hand, and looks at Connor.]

Looking shiny and new as usual, Connor. What do you do, get here at the asscrack of dawn and just start working?

[bleps]

I arrived here at 4:03 AM in order to start working, yes.

[A shorter amount of time than usual, staying at Cyberlife the night before. Would rather work on the case, the wheels spinning in his mind about too many things, than spend hours remaining in his storage unit, with only the ambient hum of technology and the steady rhythm of an armed guard’s footsteps to keep him company.

He had been working diligently, and on his monitor are lines and lines and lines of code. He’s found an adapter for the USB; it’s an archaic thing, plugged into the screen. The only thing that seems plugged into anything at all.

But he pauses, sparing a glance at Hank. Eyes his state, which doesn’t look all that well.]

You look like you hardly slept at all. And you’re... early.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Not as early as you. Four AM, Jesus shitting Christ. No wonder they're gonna replace us all with robots. But uh, yeah.

[He shrugs, grimaces. Connor really meant it when he said he was worried about Hank last night, he really did, and the part of Hank that believes that now wants to tell Connor what kind of night he had, stressed out and keyed up and worried, and guilty. That part of him sort of wants to tell Connor how his back hurts from passing out at the kitchen table and how his head hurts from the whiskey, and how he came in too early for his stomach to totally settle yet.]

I was just, uh- bored, I guess. Figured at least here there might be something else to do.

[He leans forward, not far enough to really see Connor's screen but enough to indicate he's interested in it.]

So what've you been working on for the past, uh, six hours?

[bleps]

[Connor knows that Hank likely had a rough time of it last night; probably kept company with a bottle of whiskey again. But Connor is back to his default, amenable state — the lilt of his voice normal, buzzing with the usual enthusiasm to work. The worry is not gone, but buried under hours of having found something to do, and perhaps that’s Connor’s own strange way of coping. Uncover answers where there were none before.

He shifts his screen so Hank can see. It’s a wall of text, of code slowly scrolling upwards.]

Looking through this... manually. It’s time-consuming. Your friend Dave wasn’t lying, though; his code is good. Thorough.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Huh. That's uh...

[It's a load off his mind. The quality of the code, anyway, if not the content.]

That's good. Good to hear. So if the rest of it's like that, nothing hinky anywhere, what do we know about the, uh...

[He rubs his eyes, trying to remember what Dave said. It was just last night; for a second he remembers Connor's voice, telling him to imagine what he would be like if he wasn't this way. He only interviewed the guy last night.]

God, I forgot. The model number, uh...

[He starts looking for the report on his computer, sure Connor will have made and uploaded one by now.]

The model number Dave was installing it on. It sounded like an older model, right? I think? I never paid attention to that shit. There anything glitchy about them that might not react well to it, even if what Dave wrote was good?

[bleps]

ST300.

[The correction comes quickly. And Hank would have no issue bringing up the file on his own computer. Typing up a report was the first thing that Connor did when he returned to the station initially, and it’s as organized and detailed as one might expect.]

It is an older model, but is still widely used today. There are no known widespread errors or "glitches" recorded, beyond what any android might experience over time. Even I’m at risk of a minor error occurring now and again, if I neglect to run a self-diagnostic.

That is to say, there’s nothing on the surface that would be immediately concerning about this code — but it’s difficult to know without the actual application of it.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Which means... Without testing.

[Hank looks away from his screen at Connor and then looks away from Connor, too, sucking at his teeth. Before all this bullshit, before meeting the fucking android sitting in front of him right now, he'd have said sure, why aren't we bug testing another one right now, let's see if we can't pull one from the front desk and get started. But now?]

Are we gonna get an ST300 and run this through it, then? That our next step?

[He doesn't know if his nausea's from the topic of if it's all him, just the remnants of his normal morning routine, but he does mostly know what he thinks about that idea. What he doesn't know - what he's watching very closely to find out - is what Connor thinks about it.]

[bleps]

[Connor’s been at the station for 6 hours, which has given him plenty of time to think it over. There’s no hesitation in his features as a result, no moment of questioning what they should do from here. If there were a few precious seconds when he was internally conflicted, shown on his features, frowning thinly, it was during an hour where Hank was likely still passed out at home.

So, quite plainly:]

No. I would like to possess even a modicum of agency over the outcome. What good is just potentially creating another android that would be impossible to control, if that ends up being the case? We still wouldn’t be able to differentiate it were the modifications or something else causing deviancy.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Hm.

[Hank sits back, still obviously studying Connor. That's very reasonable, very logical. He decides not to decide whether he buys it. Instead he looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and frowning and briefly, blessedly, thinking only about his headache. He rubs a hand slowly over his forehead. Then he sighs and opens his eyes back up again.]

Alright. So- A simulation? An android brain in a jar? How do we eliminate every other variable when we don't even know what all the variables are?

[bleps]

A simulation might work, though I wonder at its accuracy when not associated or connected to an actual physical body.

[He tilts his screen back in his direction.]

I know someone who we can ask. Who would know exactly how to utilize this coding in a controlled, efficient way.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Oh yeah?

[That's got Hank's attention, not least because he still doesn't one hundred percent trust Dave, and it would be good to be able to tap another resource. But he doesn't hold out too much hope; anyone Connor trusts who knows about tech probably isn't anyone Hank would trust with Connor. But, still - interesting.]

Well, don't leave me hanging. Who?

[bleps]

Elijah Kamski.

[Who better than the mind behind the creation of androids themselves? Reclusive, but no doubt would be enlightening if they could pin down an interview.]

We’ve spoken about it before. Why not see it through? We need the lead.

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Fuck, you don't aim low, do you?

[He thinks about it. He'd ordinarily never even think of talking to someone like that, even if he wanted to. Kamski's on that level of rich that he really can't be bothered with the little ants scurrying around below, even - ordinarily - if Hank wanted to ask him about official police business. But for this? Yeah, he might poke his head out of whatever fancy hidey hole he's got for himself for this.]

What the hell, I need something to do anyway. How about you keep going over that code while I do some digging, see if I can't get a face to face?

[bleps]

Of course, Lieutenant.

[A succinct nod, the faintest smile — anything gone afoul of Connor’s mood from the night before has obviously been rewound to factory reset. He goes back to looking at his screen, but then-]

Barring the “boredom”, are you feeling more clear-headed today?

[That’s his way of checking how he’s feeling, honestly. Even if he looks like death warmed over, mentality is another beast altogether different.]

let me know if connor would say something before the timeskip and i can edit

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank’s hand, reaching for his phone to start trying to dig up Kamski, hesitates. He’s hung over, tired, and depending on a whole bunch of shit Connor’s safety may or may not rest squarely on him. He looks at Connor, grimaces, then looks away, muttering his answer.]

No promises.

[This is why he came in early, right here. Drinking might be his first choice but the next best way to deal with thinking about shit is to work. So he puts his phone up to his ear and he works. Well, he chats. He smiles. He asks how people’s kids are doing. The notes he’s keeping on the screen in front of him are the only things keeping him social, up until they don’t anymore and he tosses his phone on the desk, where it slides over his desk and near Connor’s.]

God, if I have to be nice for one more second I’m going to scream.

[bleps]

[He listens, because of course he does. Connor does his own work in the meanwhile, trying to find something strange in this code meant to twist up an android’s personality modules and make them into someone “loving” and affectionate. But he can find nothing; it’s complicated, yet the application is as straightforward as one might expect. It should work just fine.

On paper, at least.

He catches sight of Hank’s phone sliding into his periphery, and says-]

But take comfort in the fact that you can manage to be nice.

[That’s a little joke, the tiniest bit cheeky, but he purposefully gives Hank no time to reply.]

Any luck?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

[Hank snorts.]

Low bar. But yeah, think I got his address, and I tracked down who I need to talk to to get us an invite. I hope you know what you want to ask - these kinds of guys usually don’t stay talkative long, and I barely even understand what we need to know to crack all this.