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

It’s like having a part out of alignment.

[Not surprising, maybe. Connor always looks so clean-cut and neat. Tie always straight, the lines of his jacket contoured against his form.]

But “bother” might be too strong of a word.

Edited 2018-08-08 00:25 (UTC)

You're not gonna get much sympathy here, Connor. I'm in my fifties; most of my parts are out of alignment. But I could probably dig out some hair gel if you really want. It might smell kind of funky, but it probably still works.

[“Smells kinda funky” is not the most shining endorsement for your hair gel, Hank.]

...it’s fine. It’s something that can be fixed later; for now, I think it’d be prudent for me to get this console running.

[That's what happens when it sits in a closet for years, although some people at the station probably wouldn't be surprised if they heard gossip that Hank went around the supermarket deliberately picking up things that smelled weird.]

Yeah.

[Back to business.]

It's not gonna be like a real, uh- a real android brain, is it? This thing you're going to run the program through? Just a simulation?

[Back to business, indeed. Fiddling with the equipment in a more expedient manner now, never mind the state of his hair.]

Just a simulation. As I said, the results may not be as accurate compared to if we were using an actual android, but... well. This is the best option for now.

[Meaning the only option they have left, really.]

[Hank nods and decides to shut up for a little bit, letting Connor work.]

[And work he does, until everything is set up and ready to be initiated. It’s as straightforward as Connor said it would be, and the simulation runs its course easily enough — and when that’s through, Dave’s code is applied as it would be in practice.

Lines and lines of code unravel on the screen, again and again. Too fast for human eyes to comprehend, but Connor latches onto each and every one, looking for inconsistencies, errors, anything.

And there’s nothing.

He runs it more than once. The result is the same each time — the successful application of a personality modification, with no hiccups, and certainly no compounding errors as worrisome as deviancy.

He shakes his head, at some point having sunken into the sofa, leaning back.]

Maybe I missed something.

[The first five times through.]

[Hank stopped watching after the first couple times but once Connor seems like he's accepted what was already obvious, Hank wanders back over.]

Connor, if you didn't see it, it's not there. I think you were right the first time you looked at it - the code's good.

Then we’re back to the beginning, Hank. No leads, no clues. Just-

[He gestures at the monitor, still flickering with lines of code that is showing them absolutely nothing of value.]

-another waste of time.

[Any sense of good humor garnered earlier in the day has petered out completely. Connor is left with frustration, setting his jaw and glancing over at Hank.]

We’re running out of options.

[Hank taps the back of the couch behind Connor's head, sucks at his teeth. Not yet, he can't say. We're not totally out of options.]

Sumo. Come on. Up.

[Hank pats his thigh, then pats the back of the couch next to where Connor sits. Sumo hops up, moving to investigate the android in his spot and to, Hank is pretty sure, lay his whole heavy body over that spot anyway, no matter what might be in his way. Hank takes a bracing breath. He doesn't really feel any more braced after he's done it.]

You've got a perfect memory, right? You go over everything we've learned so far, everything. Every little detail. If there's something there we missed, you'll find it. In the meantime, I- I'll go back to Dave's, see if he can't confirm for us that there was nothing weird on that drive. Maybe he'll tell me something new he didn't wanna say that night. I'll be back in, uh. In a little while, okay? Then we'll talk over our options.

We have a day, okay? We still have time before we have to have everything figured out. You're not done yet.

[He watches idly as Sumo draws near, investigating, only for the large dog to lay himself directly across Connor, as if he wasn’t even there at all. He sinks even deeper into the couch, the weight not so bothersome so much as the surprise of it, though he can’t say he really minds it. Not after a night like tonight.

He places a hand on Sumo’s head, scratching behind his ears. Hank has a point, of course, and there’s nothing to do but go over all the smallest details of what they know. If he can pluck out anything at all from his experiences that might tell them where to go from here. Maybe something stashed away in the evidence room—

Connor turns his head when Hank mentions leaving to go see Dave. While not unwise to follow up on this not-lead, he wonders at the suddenness of it.]

I can go with you. [His brow cinches. He can think and recall on the way over, surely.]

Yeah, I know.

[His hand moves closer to Connor, then hesitates. If this goes badly - or if it goes well, but Connor hates him afterward - this could be the last time they really talk. It could be the last time they do anything. His hand moves, tries to settle itself on the back of Connor's neck.]

But it's been a longer day for you than me. You should take a load off, make sure your circuits don't pop from stress, or something.

[If he's been allowed to cup the back of Connor's neck he'll squeeze a little, gently. If he hasn't he'll pat the back of the couch next to Connor's head.]

If you trust me, just... trust me when I say we'll figure this out. And trust that I know what I'm doing.

[The touch isn’t expected, not completely, but it is allowed. And it’s a grounding thing; coupled with Hank’s request to trust him, all he can do is nod.

Of course he trusts him.]

...all right. I’ll be here if you need me, but return as soon as you can. We can talk through what we know.

[He takes another unsuccessful, bracing breath. It's time to go, before his nerves get bad enough that all those advanced detecting functions break through Connor's funk to detect them.]

Yeah. We'll talk.

[So. He goes. He goes to get dogfood first, which feels fucking bizarre, but he needs time to call Dave's burner phone anyway. So he shops for dogfood, and he shops for soup. It's hard deciding whether to bring Sumo - he knows he shouldn't, that his presence will make them more recognizable, but calling someone to take care of him will let people know Hank's planning on going away, which will cost him precious time in which Hank is hoping Fowler will assume he just decided not to come in for a while. It happens sometimes. Hank kind of has the sense that some time soon even the dregs of Fowler's pity for him will drain away and that'll be it for Hank's job, but as long as that doesn't happen tomorrow it won't actually matter.

Dave has at least some of what he needs. After an angry lecture about getting impatient and practically getting beaten around the head with the fact that not everything he wanted is done, Hank gets the parts he needs and the lessons on how to use them. He even practices a little. Then he pulls the elbow length gloves off, and he drives home. Groceries go in the trunk. Most of the rest goes on the passenger seat. Some of it goes in his pocket.]

Hey, Connor. [It's easier to be steady now. That doesn't exactly surprise him. It always gets a little easier once shit kicks off.] How are you holding up?

Edited 2018-08-08 10:56 (UTC)

[By the time Hank’s returned home, Connor’s gotten up from the couch (somehow freeing himself from Sumo in a way a man can only guess), and has made his rounds of the living room several times. Going over cases in his mind, details, dialogue, something, anything to go on.

At some point he had stopped walking and the quarter came out — it chimes neatly in the air as Connor flips it and catches it, flips it and catches it, again and again until he hears and sees Hank, then pauses, clutching it in a palm.]

Welcome back, Lieutenant. I’m fine; I’ve just been going over cases in my head, as you suggested. Did you learn anything?

Maybe, a little. Not sure yet.

[He takes a couple steps closer, very aware of how close he has to be but not wanting to overdo it. He wants to ask Connor what he wants first, anyway, or come as close to it as he can. It's a risk, stupid to not just do this and go, but not even giving Connor a chance to do this willingly feels wrong.]

I'd like to hear what you came up with first, though. Anything?

[“A little” is better than what he has — nothing. “A little” is promising, and it makes Connor’s eyebrows slope upwards slightly as Hank draws near. There’s something serious about his expression, something that looks like consideration, and Connor wonders what it might be. What Dave might have told him.]

...No. Nothing that we haven’t gone over ourselves, a hundred times over. But why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned? Maybe something will connect.

[He tucks the quarter away in his pocket, ready to listen.]

[Hank takes a couple more steps.]

I gotta ask you something first, Connor.

[His heart's starting to beat a little harder. If it gets any worse he'll have to assume Connor can sense it somehow, the incoming adrenaline, and just move, just do what he has to do, but- not yet. Not just yet.]

Every time you start thinking we're not gonna crack this case, you freak out. Why is that?

[He knows, of course. But he wants Connor to say it.]

[His eyes remain on Hank’s, though when the question is asked, he looks a little surprised. Not sure what to make of it — not sure why that was relevant, not now when Hank has new information to share.

It’s his first instinct to shrink away from the question. To give the usual response of it being something born from his innate desire to complete the mission assigned to him. Because what good was a machine that couldn’t serve its purpose?

If anyone else asked, he would’ve said that much. But Hank deserves an answer that isn’t so wrapped up in detachment, that shines a little brighter with the truth at a distance.]

Because, Hank, if I don’t see this through to the end, I won’t— I won’t be your partner any more.

[He says it without really saying it.]

Why are you asking me this now?

[Hank taps at his thigh, sucking at his teeth, half-smiling. It's not a happy smile but maybe it's a satisfied one, morbidly amused. They might not have shit going for them right now, but Connor isn't in denial anymore. At least there's that.

He takes a couple steps closer, in arm's length of Connor now. He puts both his hands, casual, in his jacket pockets.]

Just wanted to make sure you knew.

[Before his heart can start beating any harder he whips one hand out, moving it to try and slap the thing slipped over his fingers onto Connor's middle. If it works - and god, fuck is he screwed if it doesn't work - all Connor's limbs should stop working.]

[There are warning signs, of course. Some instinctive sensor of his, tracking Hank’s heartbeat. The tension in the man’s shoulders, his brow, the faint underlying of strangeness in his tone of voice — all of it, to tell Connor that something isn’t right. That something else is happening and is going to happen. and maybe if this was any other man, he would’ve stepped back. Been wary.

But it’s too late. Hank presses a hand against his chest, and before confusion can even settle into Connor, there’s a terrible jolt of something shocking through his system. His vision statics, scrambles, his limbs go stiff before they go useless, his teeth grit, and utter alarm careens through his features. Before he can lose complete control of his body (what a terrifying notion, that something should just flash through him and then he’ll go useless, threaten to go into a soft reboot, he can feel it nipping at his heels), a hand lashes out and grips at Hank’s coat. Fingers digging in tightly against cloth, and he looks up at the man.

If you trust me, just... trust me when I say we'll figure this out. And trust that I know what I'm doing.

Why?]

Hank… what are you…wh-

[Even those words sound like a track that’s skipping, scratches on an old record. It’s the last of control he has left in him, before all of him goes useless, and Connor begins to crumple unceremoniously to the ground.]

[Hank makes a wordless noise, pained, and catches Connor and lowers him to the floor.]

I guess uh, might help you to know what's going on, huh?

[He fishes some tools out of his pockets. They make a metallic noise as he tosses them to the floor and, after a second's hesitation, he folds up his jacket and slips it beneath Connor's head.]

That's what Dave told me. About uh, that little thing on your chest there.

[He makes his hands work fast, before he has a chance to really think about it. He's got to work fast, anyway, in case Connor decides to send a distress signal or whatever, in case he decides to try to connect to Cyberlife. Hank's hands unbutton the bottom few buttons of Connor's shirt, brushing the material out of the way and touching Connor's middle in the way he's been taught, the way that's supposed to make Connor's skin slide back and his stomach open up.]

Used to work on androids that are too glitchy for a guy to repair em safely. Sends a signal straight into your thirium pump, transmits it through your blood. You should still be able to talk but uh, there wasn't time for me to learn much more than that about what it does. Just enough to use it.

[The tools clink against each other as he looks them over, briefly. They're small, they have to be small, so unless he's really fucked it up there should be a hole in Connor's stomach wide enough to fit them through.]

[He’s at Hank’s mercy, and there’s nothing to be done about the way he’s laid out on the ground, head propped up with care. Paradoxical to all that was happening, that gesture, as if knocking out the control over his limbs wasn’t something utterly jarring, distinctively frightening. He sees the ceiling of Hank’s house staring down at him, catches flashes of movement out of his periphery. Feels the man accessing his middle, the treacherous panel gone plastic-white, and sliding up to reveal his insides.

His LED flickers into the red, straining against the impulses that keep him caged in his own body. Tries to will his arms to move, his hands to clench, for him to sit up and demand that Hank stop, what was he doing-

Connor hears the clinking of tools. He can’t see them, and he can’t help the way the fear of the unknown absolutely threads through him.]

Use it… use it for what?!

[At least his jaw works, his mouth forms words with sharp edges, accusatory.]

Hey, hey. Hey.

[Hank's tone goes urgent and soft and he brushes his fingers over Connor's LED.]

It's okay. It's alright. Just, just your tracker, okay? That's it for now. Just your tracker.

[He takes the tool he needs and hesitates and makes himself stop hesitating, and then his fingers are in Connor's insides. It feels like a role reversal, he thinks, with distant surprise. It feels like surgery. He never expected this to feel like that and he never expected to be this freaked out about it.

But that's what the practice was for. He remembers what the tracker looks like. He remembers what signal the tool in his hand is going to give off when he finds it. He remembers how to brush aside all the bits he needs to reach through without putting them out of alignment.

Then he's sitting back with the tool on the ground and the tracker held between his fingers, and he doesn't remember how it got there. If Connor said something in the past thirty seconds, he probably didn't hear it. He tries to pay attention, to get his brain working, but his brain's pretty occupied with the thing between his fingers and the way his hands are shaking and with noticing the blood, where those spots of Connor's blood got to and wondering if he should clean them up.]

I know-

[He straightens out his voice, tries to breathe a little slower.]

I know trackers turn off in deviants, but- but you've always been weird, uh- But I can't, uh- I can't risk it. You get that, right? Risk, uh- uh, risk calculation.

[He barely registers the touch across his LED. It spins, mercilessly, as Hank works at him. Works in him.

Just his tracker? His tracker. It can’t be just his tracker, because that isn’t just a part to be pulled out and discarded; that little component, now caught between Hank’s fingers, represents the line that Connor could never cross, that perfectly-aligned wall that he could never shatter. The ledge he could never step off of, only moving backwards, ever backwards, because that wasn’t supposed to be who he was. It couldn’t be — he couldn’t be wrong, riddled with errors. He couldn’t become what he was meant to hunt, he couldn’t be brave enough to watch his own purpose slip away from him, and simply turn forward and keep moving. That tracker was Cyberlife’s chains around his neck, and Connor would only pull so hard against them. Never enough to make them snap.

But now Hank’s removed it, he can see and feel it missing, and suddenly Connor’s just an android wheeling in the wind.

It’s an ironic surge of hot emotion that blasts through him, indignant, angry, afraid. Disbelieving, his processing whirring in his mind, because suddenly the consequences of what’s just happened in less than a handful of minutes are branching out into a hundred different paths, too overwhelming to even consider.]

Risk calculation- Risk? I’m not a deviant, Hank! You can't do this to me!

[Stepping back into 50 layers of harsh denial is the only way he knows how to process this.]

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