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

No. I don’t... I don’t know.

[I don’t know. The RK800, Cyberlife’s shining prototype, always having an answer for everything, always knowing how to proceed.

Stalled out, useless, at a crossroads.

He loses eye contact with Hank, as if his words ring so true that they physically sever that connection. He looks at an empty spot on the trunk of the car, shaking his head. Feeling a tremble of something that isn’t the cold. All of the fire has gone out of him.]

I’m scared, Hank. Why can’t you see that?

[And just like that all the anger disappears from Hank's posture, from his voice. He looks pained, instead, lets out a breath that fogs the air in front of him, lets his voice go all careful.]

Then let's get in the car, and figure this out. Together. Okay? I'm not saying we can solve all your problems but we can do something. Think you can do that? Just until you figure out what to do?

[Hank's gun is pointed almost straight at the ground now. If Connor does decide to incapacitate him and make a break for it, now would be the best time. But Hank's offered an open hand, and worked Connor down to the point where he thinks Connor could actually decide to take it. This is it, maybe. Moment of truth.]

[Can a city have a pulse? Can it have eyes? It must, in some way that Connor cannot explain, but he feels it — Detroit’s breath on his neck, its gaze from miles away, through the pollution and snow and sky, its presence thrumming in him, like Thirium shooting through his body. Reminding him that it’s there, and that in its ugly heart lies Cyberlife; waiting for his return, back into the a neat little slot set aside just for him, his place to be stored, to wait until technicians can swing by and see all that’s wrong with him, and his jagged edges can be smoothed down and he can try again. He can try again, and maybe this time he’ll be successful in every way that he had failed before. And then all those awful errors riddled in his head will be gone, and he can forget about emotions and Hank Anderson trying to get him back into the car, trying to convince him to commit to what he already knows he is.

He could try that. He could try to fit into that perfect slot shaped like himself, just throw himself away to Cyberlife to be a cog in the machine until they don’t need him any longer. At least then he would’ve fulfilled a purpose, would’ve been utilized as he was supposed to be. It should be an easy choice. It should be.

But even now, thinking about it, it feels wrong. Like he’s changed too much, a piece of the puzzle that’s warped, and Connor realizes that he doesn’t want to go back to that. Knows that even before Hank made all of his limbs go dead and shuffled him into the backseat of his car, he didn’t want it. When did he make that decision? After Kamski? Before that? He wonders when emotion and empathy began to blossom and crawl along his facsimile of a spine, some beautiful disease with its roots firmly in him now.

(Trichogaster lalius. Dwarf gourami. Blue scaled, flopping weakly in his hand. Why does he remember that now? How odd. How ridiculous.)

After what seems like too long, Connor shakes his head, obstinately.]

…No.

[He lifts his eyes to meet Hank’s, his face twisted with the consequence of thought, these thoughts, running through his head.]

You have to feed Sumo first. He’s hungry.

[Hank's expression crumples into anger and then, as Connor goes on, twists and settles into total confusion. He gives a disbelieving huff.]

You're some kinda crazy, you know that?

[He shifts his gun to one hand and slowly, slowly reaches out and puts it on the car, between them. Then he steps back from it.]

Okay. You don't have to decide now. I'll just...

[He steps around to the trunk, opening it and shivering before he starts trying to heave out the bag of dog food there. He keeps glancing up at Connor as he does it, assessing, trying to figure out what to make of him. It seems wrong to think there was a time when this fucking android didn't confuse the shit out of him.]

I'll just get this done and we'll... You can decide what to do when we get to it. Okay.

[Connor doesn't even glance at the gun between them. He has no interest in it, certainly no will to use it. His decision's already been made, but he won't correct Hank. He'll gladly take the opportunity for a moment of stillness, strange normalcy, between them now. After all that's happened, it feels like a reprieve.

That and poor Sumo really should eat, he thinks.

Connor just nods, watching. Crosses his arms across his chest, though it's impossible for him to feel cold.]

[So Hank feeds the dog. He forgot to bring bowls so he just holds the bag open for Sumo as he digs in, winding his finger into the dog’s fur not tight enough to hurt Sumo, just tight enough to help. He hunches his shoulders against the cold, and the next time his eyes dart to Connor they stay there.]

I guess you don’t care about freezing, but I’m gonna get back in the car. Just-

[Dread tightens up his face, his voice.]

If you decide to go, you tell me first, okay? Will you do that?

[For a rare moment, all he wants to do is just stand out here and watch Sumo eat. It's mundane, but there's something distracting in observing the way snow falls onto his fur, forming minute patterns that dust his coat with white. Details. Connor's eyes, always gravitating towards details. Comforting in the familiarity of it.

But Hank sounds distressed. Connor reaches up to run a hand through his hair, though it's a laughable attempt at righting what has long fallen out of place. He supposes he should clarify, and commit to this decision by putting words to it.]

...I don't want to return to Cyberlife. I don't think I have wanted to for a long while. I'll go with you.

[It doesn't feel like a weight removed, but at least it's out there now.]

I just wanted to make certain that you didn't forget to take care of Sumo in the meanwhile.

[It may not feel like a weight removed to Connor, but it sure does to Hank. He sags, has to rebalance before he falls on his ass. Then he looks down at Sumo. He hasn’t always taken care of Sumo the way he should, maybe; usually on the same nights he hasn’t taken care of himself. He rubs at Sumo’s shoulders for a second, carding his fingers through the thick fur. Then he looks up at Connor, lips turned up a little at one corner, rueful.]

Good thing he has you, huh.

[He looks down, self conscious, at the bag of dog food. Sumo seems like he’s done. Hank rolls up the top and stands, heaving it back into the trunk. He glances one more time at Connor.]

Right.

[He escapes to the car. Once in there he shivers, rubs at his arms, rubs at his eyes. After a minute he comes to terms with the fact that there’s no way his body is going to let him sleep now, not sober, and he picks up his cell phone from where it fell onto the floorboards. Soon enough he’s scowling at the screen, at least half distracted by how dense is the subject in front of him, and how impossible it is going to be for him to learn.]

[He watches as Hank gets back into the car, then his eyes flick over to Sumo, who seems inclined to follow. And then, glancing back down at the road one more time, as if he could see the outline of a bustling, alive city that wasn't really there, Connor turns and heads towards the vehicle. His shoes gently crunch over a thin layer of building snow, white and pristine.

Connor thinks he'll want to sit in the backseat so he can be with Sumo, and for some transient reason, he feels like he might be more self-conscious about… everything if he sat in the front. But there’s a pause first. Then the sound of Sumo clambering into the backseat, followed by Connor. He closes the door.

He scoots over, so that he can lean forward between the two front seats and hand Hank, in a loose grip, something he had forgotten on top of the car — his gun.]

Lieutenant.

[His eyes trace over briefly to Hank's phone, but first... Forget something?]

Right.

[Hank stares at the gun for a second, glances at Connor’s face, then takes it and tucks it into its holster in the glove box. Then he thinks about where Connor’s sitting.

Of course he won’t be at ease with Hank now. Hank knew that when he started all this. But Connor saying he didn’t want to go back, that maybe he hasn’t for a while... That makes it worth it. He’ll just have to keep reminding himself of that. That makes it all worth it.

He takes a breath, rubbing at his face.]

Mind if we just sit here a while? Don’t think I’m good to drive.

[Even at the harsh angle at which Connor is sitting, allowing him only to take in Hank's profile, the exhaustion is obvious. The exhaustion was obvious with how quickly the man had fallen asleep just minutes before, and his voice takes on something vaguely concerning.]

I agree. You're not. It's as I said before, you should rest; and maybe consider finding a place to stay for the night.

[The sun's already arced through the sky, starting its descent in the west. It's been a long day, and a long drive.]

I can drive us, if necessary.

This was gonna be it. But if you’re willing to take over and get us further away, I’m not gonna say no.

[Still, he doesn’t get up yet. He leans his head back instead, laying his arm over his eyes and letting his phone fall face up into his lap. If he’d known today was going to be like this maybe he’d have tried harder to get more than a couple hours sleep last night.]

I was going to try and stick to small towns, kinds of places that never even had a Radio Shack, let alone a Cyberlife store. Not stopping in towns at all for a while might be better. But you... I don’t know. Bet you know stuff about this getaway shit that I can’t even touch.

[He sighs.]

I should be letting you make all the decisions from here on in anyway, shouldn’t I? Only fair.

[Frowning, his eyes follow Hank’s phone as it drops in his lap.]

...You can’t live in this car for an extended amount of time. We can afford to stop and rest once in a while. You’ll feel better in the long run — there’s only so much strain the human body can take, before efficiency takes a steep downward turn.

[A beat.]

And don’t you need time to focus on whatever it is you’re trying to learn?

[The flashes of code and instruction on his phone is easily seen from this angle. Connor’s actual implied question is obvious.]

Are you mothering me? Even-

[Hank lifts his arm off his eyes to stare, disbelieving, at Connor's reflection in the rearview mirror. He'd feel better, he thinks, if Connor were yelling at him. Or even giving him the cold shoulder, like he kind of thought Connor was doing. For a second, he thinks he'd feel better if Connor suggested going to the nearest town and leaving Hank there, but he's glad Connor seemingly isn't even considering that, he's glad, and he closes his eyes and slides his arm back down over his face. He slides it down a little too far; when he speaks again his voice is muffled.]

Better if you do it, anyway, since you're on board now.

[He finds his phone and holds it out in the general direction he remembers Connor being.]

Only app on the second page. And then, uh, the usb drive in the bag under my legs, front pocket. 's an adapter in there too.

[He lifts his legs up so Connor can reach the bag, bracing his feet on the passenger side window instead of the door. The app is for reading and writing code, although he hasn't tried to use it yet. He knows any chance of giving Connor the ability to block Cyberlife's calls, say no to giving their damn reports, is kind of pathetically small. He doesn't need to open the thing up in the coding app and see it.]

Dave said, uh... There might be a whole separate thing to write before that one will even work, something that'll make your system recognize you as owner or whatever, I don't know, he seemed kinda freaked and I didn't want to push my luck, so I didn't ask. Maybe you can... I don't know, figure something out, or tell me it's a stupid idea that'll never work, or- fuck, I don't know.

[If he’s stuck on this terrible joyride with you and Sumo, Hank, Connor is going to make sure you take care of yourself. It’s not like the man has the best track record when it comes to his health. The fact that he stunned him, dug around in his insides, then kidnapped him is reason enough to allow him that much; that’s Connor’s logic.

Hank would feel Connor’s fingers brushing against his own as the android reaches over to take the offered phone. He looks at it, flipping through the app — basic coding principles, from what it looks like. His browline twists up in a question, parsing what Hank is telling him.]

You want to force my independence from Cyberlife through... secondhand coding?

[He’s not sure what to think about that — it sounds invasive, blindly trusting someone else’s code to apply neatly and without issue to his own.

Connor sets the phone aside and reaches forward to dig for the USB in the bag. He pushes one of Hank’s legs aside in an idle manner, thoughtlessly. While he rustles around:]

Do you trust this program? Dave’s never worked on an RK800 before; we don’t know how well it’ll integrate if we try.

I wouldn't-

[Hank's voice sounds a little strangled. His arm flops down to his side and he frowns at the ceiling, taking deep breaths.]

I wouldn't have forced it on you, Connor. I promise I, I wouldn't, I just-

I don't know. I just wanted to do something.

[Hank's voice has gone quiet at that last and he grips the edge of the seat under him, keeps not looking at Connor.]

He didn't even get to write it, anyway. Things happened too fast. That's why I was gonna- I wasn't, uh, going to force it though, I just-

Fuck, um, could you reach under my seat, should be some uh, soup under there. Might feel better if I eat something.

[Connor gives up on the USB for now, then, if he’s going to be delegated to getting Hank’s soup from under the seat. Connor has to reach even more, given that he’s in the backseat, and it’s something of an effort, all limbs, as he twists his body and his hands search for their prize.

He speaks during all of this.]

You mean similar to how you wouldn’t have forcibly frozen all my limbs and removed my tracker?

[Faintly dry, that.]

...it’s not a bad idea in theory. The application of something that would tell my internal programming to treat Cyberlife as unwelcome and invasive.

[Ah, his fingers curl around what he assumes is a can or container of soup. He pushes back, trying to straighten, the soup clutched in one hand.]

But the issue is time.

[There it is. It's still weird, though, Connor is weird, all cooperation where Hank would have been all anger. But maybe he doesn't know much about Connor, still, except for how the guy keeps putting him off with weird responses. At least Hank got sarcasm, for a second. It's the least of what he ought to get, but it's something.]

That's different. That tracker's your body, and it shouldn't have even been there in the first place. A program-

[That would be changing Connor's mind. His soul, maybe. But the only point he's made, he knows, is that that would have been worse, not that he wouldn't have done it. Hank swallows and looks over to reach out for the soup.]

You mean you couldn't just- I don't know, write something up at superspeed?

I could try. But just because I’m an android doesn’t mean that I’m immune from making mistakes. Testing would still be preferable, and we don’t have the time for that, as I said.

[He’s quiet for a moment. There’s something about Connor being Connor that disallows him to ignore contradictions. Hypocrisy, he’d call it, if he was feeling particularly harsh. It’s how he’s been built; it’s part of his personality, to sniff out inconsistencies and toss them under the limelight. So then, to bring the conversation back around:]

‘But I'd do it again. I'd do worse, if I had to, if that's what it took to give you a life.’ [Remember those words, Hank? Connor looks at him evenly.] Lieutenant, you had me incapacitated and threw me into the backseat of your car despite my protests. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you wouldn’t have run a program through my system without my permission as well?

[The soup is taken. Connor pushes himself up from the ground again, settling again into the backseat.

He says all this, of course, and maybe should be angry about it. Is obviously still a little put-off; but Hank is Hank. Connor will not argue this so far to negate the fact that he called him a good man earlier. He still believes that, despite everything.]

I wouldn’t-

[Hank closes his eyes again, for a minute. He needs a drink suddenly, desperately. What he has is soup. He starts shifting around, pulling himself into the passenger seat. That gives him long enough that, when he’s done, he can stand to talk.]

Still want to drive?

...Yes.

[That would be for the best. Give Hank time to rest, time to pull himself out of the thick mire that is exhaustion threatening to overcome him. The subject seems to be dropped, the point made, and Connor hesitates only for a second before exiting the backseat, closing the door behind him.

He joins Hank in the front, behind the wheel, only second later. He turns over the engine, and it comes to stuttering to life like an animal awakening from slumber.]

Eat. Then sleep. I'll wake you if I require something.

[Hank opens his mouth to reply, then just nods. He forgot spoons too and it’s gross cold but he does feel a little less shitty afterward, and he throws the can at his feet and leans his head against the window and tries to think of nothing. Fifteen minutes later he’s given up and is fucking around on his phone, although there’s fuckall he can do on it-when it’s disconnected from the outside world like it is. He’d feel really fucking stupid, though, if he did all this and then got caught because he forgot all the ways the cops can track his phone, so he leaves it the way it is. Thirty minutes after that, he’s asleep.

It’s not a deep sleep. He blinks awake at turns and noises and bumps on the road, and after about the fourth or fifth time he squints at the clock and decides that’s enough of a nap to keep him going for a while]

Want me to take over so you can work on, uh, coding?

[He rubs his fingers against his eyes and then peers out the windshield at any street signs.]

Where we headed?

Edited (typos) 2018-08-10 16:09 (UTC)

No. Not yet.

[It's nighttime proper now. It's the sort of road that seems to stretch out into the darkness, never ending, small and badly lit. The kind that's indicative of being out in the middle of nowhere, where you can drive too fast without anyone caring at your own risk -- but Connor drives at that perfect in-between speed, not too quick and not too slow for this sort of weather, his LED adding a faintly ephemeral glow to the interior of the car.

He glances over briefly to Hank. He still wouldn't consider the man remotely rested enough.]

The nearest small town. 10.8 miles from where we are currently. To find a place to suffiently recover from... all that's transpired, and to realign our focus from there. You thought to bring money, didn't you?

[Hank bends to pull one of the stacks of bills out of the bag and wave it in answer before putting it back and settling in, muttering to himself.]

‘Realign our focus,’ what does that even...

Wait, recover? That, uh, stunner thing didn’t do anything else to you, did it?

[The stack of bills is reassuring, though it seems to drive home the point that he feels like a criminal on the run. The twist of irony doesn't even begin to escape him.]

It means I want time to think on how to proceed, and we can afford to stop constantly moving for a short period of time to achieve this.

[Androids don't get tired, but those deviating must experience some strange heaviness in their bodies, a weariness that can't be quantified as anything measured, he thinks. Connor's world has just been turned upside-down, and it continues to move past them in a blur -- it would be nice to feel, for a moment, like it isn't tilting on its axis.]

As for recovering... I meant, mostly, for you. I'm functioning as normally as the term can be applied to me.

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