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

[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.]

[An exciting three months, indeed. Three months that have successfully etched an existential crisis into his core, making him pull away from all that he was. Faced with moral dilemmas and mortal danger alike.

Yes, exciting is one word for it -- but associations with music? He wonders if any of them would qualify as positive, given the nature of their cases.]

It isn't as if Cyberlife was keen on playing music in their elevators.

[Outside of work, that's it's all he ever knew. Cyberlife and its sterile, white walls. Perfect glass elevators. The slow march of armed guards. Sometimes the speakers in the lobby would eke out a stilted, chiming tune through the speakers, but nothing worthy of note.]

When I think of poignant experiences or feelings, I think of the cases we've worked together. And to follow this exercise in association, I then think of you. Which then leads us back to metal, where we started.

Hope that's a good association you've got with me, there.

[Hank gives a wry smile.]

But uh, just keep flipping the channel, stop if you hear anything that catches your ear, and maybe we'll make some new memories ourselves. I don't know, sneak into a concert or something.

[Speaking of memories, that one makes Hank's smile come back, briefly.]

Of course it's a good association. Well, mostly.

[The last addendum is added with his own wry little upturn of a grin, and he changes the stations a few times more. But to be honest, his curiosity has been pulled in the direction of Hank's suggestion.]

Why would we need to sneak into a concert?

[Connor smiling at him is still weird. He'd have to think about it more to figure out why, but it's a good weird, anyway, so maybe why doesn't matter. What does matter is educating Connor on the finer points of teenage rule breaking. Connor never got to be a teenager; this kind of petty crime's probably okay, Hank figures, if it's to give Connor life experience.]

Well, sneaking in to hear a band kind of matches up that band with the memory all on its own, but if it's need you wanna talk about most concerts sell their tickets online now, don't they? Even a lot of the scalpers do it online these days. Unless we can find some really small, weird place that takes cash we might have to do it that way.

[Connor is blissfuly unaware of being signed up for Teenage Shenanigans at Hank's behest. He knows that technically sneaking in is not exactly legal, but the other's explanation makes sense, and to be honest, he would like to experience it someday.

He'd like to experience a lot of things, he thinks, if he's given the chance.]

Then we'll find something. Add it to the figurative list of items to check off, if we're embarking on an extended road trip.

[The station lands on something instrumental, something shaped like jazz, erratic rhythms and soulful melodies. He pauses, considering.] You also listen to this, don't you?

Uh, yeah, sometimes.

[Okay. He knows he's all Connor's got to base this whole human experience thing off of right now, but he's still got to at least kind of say-]

Don't put too much stock in what I like, but uh, yeah. You saw the records at my place, right? Those were Sara's, most of them, but she let me keep em after, uh, after she left. This kind of music's pretty good, if you're in the right mood.

Hey, maybe we could find a jazz concert to sneak into, everyone'll be too chill to stop us.

Yes, I remember seeing your collection the first day I was in your home. [The day he broke the window and tumbled in like a harried thing, wanting to make sure Hank was all right. Slapping him awake and dumping him into the tub, dousing him with cold water. Connor, forever great at building upon first impressions.] Just as I remember your claim that you can tell the difference between analog and digitally compressed music — I guess your jazz records would’ve been vital in proving that, if we ever wished to test this claim.

[Hard to tell if that’s a joke, a little jab at their conversation from before. Or if he’s quite serious about this curiosity, intending to one day see if Hank really can tell the difference.

But Connor’s quiet for a moment, listening. There’s something about it that he cannot quite… describe. As if words do not stick, can’t work as proper labels to describe this music and the conjuring of something it creates. Perhaps he would better be able to quantify it if given proper associations to go hand-in-hand with the compositions.]

I think I do like it, though.

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