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

[Hank’s reaction isn’t quite a sneer; that’d be too straightforward. It’s too halfhearted for that. He thought he’d get more time before he had to sort through that oily feeling and the gratitude that ooze up whenever Connor does this.

Fuck it. If Connor wouldn’t even let him joke around for a second before pointing out how pathetic Hank is, Hank doesn’t have to worry about reacting the right way.]

Let me shower really quick and I’ll perk right up. You just keep thinking about where you wanna go today, okay? Let me do what I’m gonna do, I’ll get us there.

[His brow cinches with the flicker of a threat to argue the point... but it recedes with a slow sort of resignation.]

...All right. If you say so, Lieutenant.

["If you say so", Connor's go-to phrase of probably-not-a-great-idea-but-sure-go-for-it-if-you-want.]

[Hank gives him a tight smile - he does say so, so nice of Connor to agree - and makes it to the bathroom. All by himself. He even remembers to bring a change of clothes.

He comes out in about fifteen minutes, shivering and toweling off his hair. He tosses the towel toward the bed, then holds out his arms and makes a point of walking with one foot directly in front of the other, raising his eyebrows. Then he shivers again, cold water dripping out from his hair and down his neck, and digs in the duffel bag while he talks, looking for something warm to slip on under his coat. His arms are still covered in goosebumps; weird how you forget how deeply shitty a cold shower is until you decide to take one. He's sure as shit awake now, though. ]

See? All better. You gonna make me recite the alphabet backward now, or you going to trust me to drive?

[Hank might be trying to prove a point, but all Connor sees are things to correct; coming out still shivering (you'll compromise your immune system, Hank), hair still needing drying (...you'll compromise your immune system, Hank), and the argument that he's more awake now does not necessarily nullify Connor's issue with him probably still not feeling great after last night.

Maybe Connor should've been a caretaker android. If this is the wry thought that flits through his mind, he says nothing of it -- instead, he only grabs the towel on the bed and offers it mildly back to Hank.]

I trust you to drive. But you should dry off more.

[take care. of. yourself!!!!]

[Hank could have told him - if he knew what Connor was thinking, anyway, and lucky thing he doesn't - that a caretaker android would have gone over much, much worse. At least Connor cares about him because he wants to, but even now that Hank knows that it's hard enough to take. Something pretending to care about him, trying to get under his skin like that just because it's been told to-

It's probably a good thing, that's all, that Hank doesn't know Connor is thinking about that. A better thing that Connor doesn't show any indication of that concern right now, so that after a brief suspicious look Hank can accept it as just an observation, and his hackles don't rise any further than they already have. Hank ducks his head, rubbing the towel on the underside of his hair and making it all stick up in weird directions.]

You sure you don't have to do anything? Any maintenance or whatever?

[He ruffles his hair with the towel one last time, throws it on the bed again, and pulls the sweatshirt he found on over his head, thinking about what he knows.]

You said you uh, straighten up any errors when you go back to Cyberlife. But you also said you don't get many, because of what a fancy new model you are. So we won't have to worry about that for a while, right?

[Connor’s eyes track the trajectory of the towel as it lands back on the bed. Better, he thinks, than nothing. Hank is slipping on something warmer, so maybe he can let this concern fall by the wayside for now.

(The worry is simply something that won’t go away, Hank. It’s how Connor is, and the man’s a good friend. Of course he’s going to worry.)]

That’s correct. I can self-test, and I ran one simply out of curiosity last night, though I can often tell if there’s some part of me that needs adjusting, or realignment due to excessive exertion, otherwise.

[AKA when they find themselves in a tussle, or a lengthy chase scene.]

Only the... expected errors were indicated at the time. Nothing to be concerned about.

[Hank eyes him. He doesn't know enough about Connor to read that hesitation, that pause there. It's probably just a 'how do I explain this shit to this stupid human' kind of pause, stopping to figure out the simplest word to use. But as he walks around making sure everything's packed up, tying a plastic bag over the top of the still-capless whiskey bottle, he decides to ask anyway.]

Yeah? What kind of 'expected' errors, just you getting jittery or something?

[His lips pulls downwards.]

Code 4 errors. What’s to be expected after my ongoing decision to not return to Detroit.

[Putting a name to deviancy still feels strange, as applied to him. Like some label that he never really tore off and stuck to chest, but it’s there, and finding it odd on the tongue is merely an issue of unfamiliarity. Discomfort, because it heralds uncertainty regardless of whether or not he’s accepted it.]

[Hank zips up the bag, taking Connor's expression as good enough reason to study him openly.]

Still not telling me what those actually do.

[The guy seems reluctant as hell, so Hank can't just ask him if something's wrong, or if he wants to talk about it. He shrugs, casual.]

Stupid human here, remember? You gotta use small words when you explain this shit to me.

[There is a reluctance there, but it isn’t the same as his blatant denial from before, the sort that made Hank shove him into the backseat of his car, useless. It’s reflective of what he had admitted to him earlier — that trickle of fear, still crawling through his veins, the very reason why they’re on the run. Simply because he’s something that he shouldn’t be, according to the company that made him.

Connor won’t try to avoid explaining, regardless.]

I explained it to you briefly when we first met, remember?

[Rainy day at the Chicken Feed. Leaning against a sorry little table under a tilted umbrella.]

My analysis concludes that it’s a system of compounding errors in my cognitive processing. [Hank asked for small words, but he might not get them this time.] Code 4 errors are categorized as the most egregious, the ones that cause androids to interpret their erratic programming as emotions.

[Hank’s eyes widen briefly as he catches on, and a little more about this conversation makes sense now, in context. Connor’s shouted confession, telling Hank that he was afraid, it seems very far from the bland face laying out tech jargon in front of him. But it isn’t. Hank wonders how much more about Connor he’s going to miss, looking for the little human tics of emotion that Connor’s not going to show.]

Shit, leave it to you to hide a fuckin existential crisis in a technical manual.

Look, if you need any help uh, interpreting that erratic programming, you can talk to me about it. I know I don’t uh, exactly have the best track record dealing with all that emotional shit, but I do have fifty years experience on you. Whatever’s going through your head right now, you don’t have to keep it to yourself. Not if you don’t want to.

I... I know.

[Instinctively, he knows that he can ask Hank. Due to the indelible sort of trust that exists there between them, especially after all that's happened, this is no dawning realization for Connor.]

Thank you, Lieutenant. But I'm not trying to hide an 'existential crisis'. What is happening to me -- or has happened -- is clear. It's merely dealing with the consequences of such that might prove difficult.

You were the one who told me, after all, that 'emotions always screw everything up.'

They do. Unfortunately, we can’t turn em off.

[He just looks at Connor for a second, thoughtful.]

Or shouldn’t, maybe.

But the offer stands, alright? If any of those code four errors start to get to you, you can tell me. Keep me up to date.

[Then he picks up their bag and heads toward the door.]

Come on, I can take care of Sumo while you go check us out, then we’ll go. I don’t know where yet but uh, guess we’re better off just driving at random for a while, anyway.

I will. I promise.

[The promise is also easily made; once acknowledged, once hit with the potential of something he doesn't know how to process, Hank will be the first to know.]

I'll join you in a minute, then. Make sure you don't forget anything on the way out.

[With a succinct nod and that mote of advice, Connor leaves the make his way down to what passes for a lobby in this place, to check them out as instructed.]

[Hank lets Sumo wander around and do his business, feeds him, then lets him wander around some more. Whenever Connor gets back he'll be ready to go; at some point he'll need to eat but that's later, at least a few hours from now. For now, he drives.

While he drives, Hank finds himself fidgeting. His heel jitters on the floor, his fingers tap on the wheel. He glances over at Connor, realizing by about the third time that he's probably not being as subtle as he thinks he is and that he needs to stop. But if he stops he might never know when the whole thing starts, the whole Cyberlife garden shit, unless he starts some bullshit conversation and keeps it going so he can tell when Connor stops talking. But Connor probably needs to concentrate on coding, and Hank's bullshit smalltalk generator is kind of rusty. Every now and then he tries anyway.]

Hey, why don't you fiddle with the radio? Find something you like.

[In the passenger's seat especially, it's hard to miss Hank's fidgeting. He can practically hear the metronomic tempo in the tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel. Connor can feel the glances brushing across his profile, even if the android mostly keeps his eyes forward and on the road.

There's only so many times he can allow that to happen before he is basically required to ask what the problem is, what can he do to ease Hank's anxiety, is he worried about Connor being lost to the forceful pull of Amanda-

When Hank actually tries his hand at small talk. Connor looks at him, curious.]

I don't really listen to music, Lieutenant. The extent of what I've heard is what you play in the car when we're on our way to a crime scene.

[So very loud and very... colorful music, generally.]

Well, you do now. So...

[Hank gestures toward the radio, sounding a little annoyed, then realizes that the reasons he's annoyed are A) that waiting for bad shit to go down has never gotten, and will never get, easier, and B) because Connor can't magically read his mind and know that what Hank's trying to do is to expand his horizons, or whatever.

Besides, Hank's not supposed to be giving the guy orders anymore, anyway. That's the last thing he has any right to be doing. He takes a slow, sort of soothing breath and then explains with a little more patience.]

If you want to, I mean. Music's part of the human experience. Or, part of the emotional experience. Sometimes the right kind of music can help you... deal with shit, if it resonates the right way. But uh-

[He glances at Connor for long enough to quirk a brief little smile at him.]

Remember when you told me you liked fucking metal? I guess I'd just like to know what sort of thing you actually like.

[The annoyance doesn't go unnoticed either, and for a moment Connor is uncertain on how to proceed, as if he's expected to pull a genre of music that he prefers out of his head with no reference to go by. But the other man's transition into something a little more patient has his brow settling, though, and he looks from the radio to Hank, from Hank to the radio again.

Connor reaches over to turn it on. It blasts to life with the last station that was playing, which is definitely something cacophonous -- heavy, guttural metal.

It's almost funny how he has to raise his voice to speak over it.]

What makes you think I was lying about metal?

[That startles a half-laugh out of him.]

When's the last time you looked in a mirror?

Anyway, you can't know how much you like it until you know how you feel about the other stuff. Go on, channel surf a little. Listen to anything you want, and this might be the only time you hear me say that.

Are you basing my musical tastes on my appearance, Hank?

[He raises a brow at him, lightly amused, before gently prodding at the radio again. As often seems to be the case, it's an awful lot of advertisements, interspersed with actual music now and again.]

I actually didn't dislike it. It's very atonal and aggressive, but in an interesting way.

Yeah, well since I'm already judging your taste based on your appearance, we might as well go with something you look like you'll think is even more interesting. I don't know...

[Hank glances away from the road a couple more times, just enough to eye Connor assessingly.]

Pop music? Or some kinda techno, maybe.

[wow hank, pop music and techno?

To be fair, he doesn't really possess any knowledge about what correlates between musical tastes and physical appearance. Perhaps that's merely something that comes from experience, from living, information garnered by people-watching and being a part of society for longer than 3 months.]

Why those genres specifically?

Well, you kinda look like you could step right into Leave It To Beaver and be right at home, but I don't know what those guys back in the '50s listened to. Probably pop. And techno, I don't know, there's something about it that's-

[Robotic, he realizes. It's always seemed to him like there's something robotic about it, in a weird, intense kind of way. That's why he made the connection. Would it be insensitive, saying that? Is that what he's doing now, trying to be sensitive?

Yeah, probably. Well, he's already started saying something, maybe he can figure out some other way to say it.]

Uh, repetitive, I guess. There's a pattern to it, that's kind of the point of the whole sound. Just figured something like that might appeal.

[Maybe someone else would've taken offense to the Leave It To Beaver comment (talk about a deep cut, Hank), but Connor simply takes it at face-value.]

The point of music as a whole is a composition made up of repetition, patterns, and harmony.

[He switches stations again. It lands on the synth sound of something from the 80's. Definitely the oldies.]

Or do you mean because the sound is synthetic, it may be of interest to me?

[No offense in that question, only curiosity.]

[Hank pulls a face and shrugs. You got him.]

I don't know, I'm just throwing shit out there, you're the one who's gonna have an opinion on it. Be glad I didn't suggest uh, you know, that thing where people make music outta old Windows noises, or from Nintendo games, or whatever all that stuff is. I can't tell you what to like, anyway, music's kinda personal that way.

But uh, I guess some of it might depend on what different sounds remind you of - places you've been, or things you've done. I know you're a grand total of, what was it, three months old? Jesus. But there must be some kind of noise you associate with a memory, some kind of experience that made you feel something.

[Because, yeah. Jesus, three fucking months, the guy's like a baby if babies were tall and pushy and vaguely passive-aggressive and probably capable of murder, but they kind of seem like they've been an exciting three months - at least the parts Hank was there for - so there must be something.]

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