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

[Hank's interjection is both promising and a little problematic. But the subject is focusing on car rides, and Connor wonders if he can twist that to his advantage.]

Lengthy car rides are just as difficult on the mind. They require an endless focus on... [This is really making his LED blink. This isn't how Connor goes about thinking about things, couching words in metaphor or even "poetic" descriptions, but his programming does allow for it. He's meant to adapt, and if he's deviant, well. Hell, he'll spew poetry all day if he has to, just to make a point.]

...An endless focus on the road ahead, stretching too far. Too long, just over the horizon. The ambient hum of wheels spinning on the freeway is white noise, and it allows the mind to wander and overthink. Is that what happens to you, Hank?

Mm. Um. I guess so.

[Hank tries to make his brain work, turning his head to rub the side of his face against the seat. He wants to rub his eye, but unfolding his arms and reaching all the way up to his face feels like so much work.]

It's uh... It's the movement too, I think, it uh... The engine. Don't get engines like that these days in these modern cars. Too smooth.

Is that so? Tell me what you like about older cars?

[Connor wonders if Hank will just put himself to sleep at this rate, since Connor is making him delve into memory so that he can explain it to him.

(Also, give him more ammunition to label Hank a true hipster.)]

Um...

[Hank takes a deep, slow breath.]

Piling into someone's shitty SUV, eardrums all blown out from standin too close to the speakers, half of us stoned out of our minds. You just feel the, uh... the car kinda humming cause you can't hear, falling all over each other when you hit a pothole and stayin there, everyone's hot, broken air, sweaty as hell an' no one gives a shit. Like that. Tha's what it, uh... Had a friend who, um, she had a little Volkswagen, got it from her parents. Engine'd just fall out sometimes.

[Hank's laugh isn't so much a laugh this time as a shaking outward breath, a noise made in time with his smile.]

She'd just coast to the side of the road and run out, pick it up and put it back in. You don' get that anymore. Everyone buys these new cars for their kids cause they're, uh... they're so cheap. Everyone threw their shitty old junkers with the, uh... In with the junk. Damn shame.

Edited 2018-08-27 05:40 (UTC)

[Connor listens, trying to imagine that. He does, and none of it sounds particularly pleasant.

But in this case, probably best to refrain from a comment shaped like, “That just sounds terrible.”]

So it’s the associations and the tactile feel of those vehicles that you like the best.

You must’ve had fun.

Uh, no, actually. [Judging by his voice, though, either Hank is too tired to care or he really doesn't mind.] Sometimes. This car's not the same either, y'know. I tried but uh, 's a little too nice.

[He yawns for a little bit and then blinks up at Connor, a little too out of it to realize what he just admitted to.]

[Connor’s lips go only slightly lopsided, trying hard to leave the amusement from his tone. Because reasons.]

I think you did a decent job.

But you must’ve enjoyed yourself. Otherwise why the attempt to recreate those memories in even a small way?

Well...

[He thinks of how to answer. Or, well, he thinks of what words to use. The feelings behind the answer, right now, are very clear to him. The words are harder. So he mostly just lets them come out.]

It wasn't all good, but it's worse when it's happening. The bad stuff. When you remember it it's... better.

[His laugh this time is just as breathy and half-there, but it is not exactly amused. His expression tightens into a smile that's not one and he closes his eyes for a second, turning his face more toward the seat.]

Usually.

But uh... [Hard to open his eyes back up again - or at least, to do it and keep them open - but, after a couple seconds, he manages it.] I don't know, 's weird getting old. It's like the world upgrades, an' you get left behind. The world before you guys - and the other stuff, before this sci-fi shit was just, like, life, everyday life, the world before that was real too, you know? Wasn't so convenient, but it was real. People don' give a shit about that.

[Hank drifts gently from the previous topic to this one without a hitch, not really thinking about it. Holy ambiance moodswings, batman.]

[Connor wonders if he simply hasn’t lived long enough to know what Hank is referring to. That three months is such a short period of time, garnering only a handful of memories compared to what Hank’s experienced. And for the first time, he really does feel young. Like he’s only standing at the shallow edge of a pool — or an ocean — and there’s a swath of things at that deep end that he can talk about, but he can’t… feel about them, not in the same way Hank can. Not in the same way that he can hear, lost in those sleepy syllables.

There’s a long pause. He tries to offer:]

The world now is very real, too. The consequences of all we’ve done are… real. [Reverberating in his own mind, the cases they’ve worked.] And you’re sitting here, with me — an RK800, the most advanced prototype that CyberLife has issued to date. It doesn’t appear to me like you’re being left behind.

[Dragged along by invisible wires due to circumstance, maybe. But not left behind.]

Hmph. [The noise is faint, amused.] You gonna drag me into the future kicking and screaming, is that it? Or uh, you sayin just being near something as advanced as you's gonna futurize me, like you're givin a contact high?

[He yawns again and sighs and asks a question, not really thinking about how weird it kind of is.]

What you gonna upgrade me to, Connor?

[He isn’t certain either of those were his meaning, but his real intent is hard for even him to parse. Merely that maybe his company alone is enough to make Hank feel like he isn’t being left behind by time, by a world that keeps furiously rushing forward in technological progress. But wording it like that in his head, it feels… presumptuous.

And a question like that? Even harder to know how to answer.]

What do you want to be, Lieutenant? What would you consider an ‘upgrade’ to your current self?

Heh. Thought you wanted to put me to sleep, not keep me up listing off upgrades for the rest of the year.

[He's silent a moment, thinking, then he shrugs a shoulder, blinking hard a few times and taking another slow breath.]

Doesn' matter anyway, does it? Kinda quit my job in a pretty big way, so it's not like I'm gonna start just being a good cop any time soon.

Your life doesn’t begin and end with your career.

[Ah, well. He was supposed to be putting Hank to sleep, right? He wonders if this kind of conversation is really going to be conducive to doing that, but for a brief moment, Connor seems to not care as much about the challenge than just… talking, like this.]

You and I both are going to have to find something new at this rate. Something other than detective work.

You... you could do anything. That negotiation stuff, you could maybe go into uh, business. Or politics. [Androids? In my government? It's more likely than you think!] Or uh, cop stuff, you could go into, uh... work with lawyers, security firms. Bet you'd be good at that. Unless that boy band stuff's still in the picture.

[He makes a small, amused noise, because the idea still amuses him.]

I don' know Connor, what do you wanna do?

[Hank’s the only one who’s ever asked him that before. What does he want to do? What is he supposed to do with his newfound freedom that they’re trying their best to snatch from the jaws of CyberLife? Uncertainty bubbles up within him again, that telltale fear of not knowing which he had expressed to Hank in inelegant terms not so long ago. He tamps it down, tells it to stay quiet for now. He wants to give thought to this, but the answer keeps looping back around to the same thing. The same set of preferences.]

I… liked what I did before. [Strange, too, feeling like he’s allowed to say that he wholeheartedly likes something. That he can entertain the idea of choice beyond just middling, throwaway preferences.]

Not specifically cases revolving around deviants but… [A beat.] Finding inconsistencies, discovering leads, analyzing a scene to see if I could locate the one thing that would make it all come together. There was something satisfying about it, beyond just filling the requirements of my assigned task.

[A shrug of his shoulders, something in the curve of his back going slack as he leans against the seat.]

I realize that’s ironic. That my preferences still align with CyberLife’s inherent design for the RK800 model. Maybe some parts of me will never be as autonomous as I like.

My mom wanted me to be a hard worker.

[Hank's words are a little clearer, not really wholly awake still but more focused, now that they've stumbled onto a topic that feels genuinely important.]

Good study habits, being proactive with uh, work and assignments and all that stuff, extra curricular shit. Had friends who hated it, really hated their parents for that, for pushin them. But I... I don't know. It fit. That was me for a long time.

[He shrugs.]

Can't help what you know. And if you like what you know, that's good, isn't it? 's like taking something back from them, taking that RK800 shit and just, doing whatever you want with it.

…You’re probably right about that.

[There’s only so much that he can change about himself, about how he was built. A part of him wants to disassociate with that; to view every little designed feature of his appearance, of his interior, as his own. But the rest of him knows that this isn’t reasonable. What he defines as his own analytical mind still has — and always will — CyberLife’s fingerprints all over it.

A bit like human genetics, maybe. Nature versus nurture. The ability to define who you are in life, versus the limitations of what you’re literally made of.]

Did you always know that you wanted to work for the police?

Around high school 's when I decided on it. I, uh...

[He shifts around to look down, pulling a wry, embarrassed kind of face at the armrest between them.]

I wanted to, uh, to prove something, I guess. Something about cops or, authority, or something. I wanted to do something good, change shit from the inside.

[He huffs - again, not a particularly amused noise.]

I don't know, I was young. It was that part of it I wanted, changing something, being, uh- I guess I always knew that part of it, that I wanted to be someone who could do that.

I guess you're making it easier on yourself than I did, wanting to do something just 'cause you want to do it. Realistic goal setting, and all. Who knows, we might still be able to figure out a way for you to do it. Bet we could. That'd be nice.

[That explanation, maybe, doesn’t surprise Connor. It aligns with what he knows about the sort of man Hank used to be; applauded and accoladed, working hard and moving up fast in the ranks of the DPD. Motivation of a great sort, pushing him forward. Individuals with something to achieve worked in that way — a mindset wanting to prove something and feeling satisfied because of it.]

My reasoning behind wanting to work with the police doesn’t invalidate yours. [Never mind talk about himself. He feels like his is more important to clarify. Even if Hank always shies away from it.] Wanting to incite change is important.

[Markus, leading a revolution for the sake of his people. Hank, throwing everything away for Connor, so he could force himself out of terrified denial and act as free person.

Connor, who was content to remain a stagnant machine until he was no longer needed, simply because he wasn't brave enough to do otherwise.]

Don’t discredit yourself in that way.

[Hank makes a disgusted, dismissive noise, tightening his arms around his chest.]

It's not discrediting, it's just - you can do what you want to do, that's all I'm saying. I'm not like- down on myself, or anything, it's just history. I'm just talking about history. You can do what you wanna do or you can't, that's all. I'm not trying to, like, make a dick measuring contest out of our life's dreams, or anything. I wouldn't treat your- your life that way, you know that.

[Hank lifts his head, finally, to scowl at Connor, and also maybe kind of sort of to check on whether his try at shifting the focus back on Connor worked as well as he hopes it did. They're not talking about Hank's failures, no way, even half asleep - maybe less than half, now - he is way too sober to be talking about that.]

[Connor looks at him, and at this point he’s unsurprised to hear Hank’s reaction.]

That isn’t at all the point I was trying to make. But I think you know that — you always deflect, Lieutenant.

[Not down on himself, he said. Connor wants to say he’s never heard something so inaccurate before, but he’s not feeling snippy this time. Only his usual mode of quiet, underlying exasperation.]

I was paying you a compliment. You should accept it, for once.

'm not a lieutenant anymore.

[He says it a little because it's true, a lot because he wants to buy himself a little time. And of course he can't keep looking at Connor while they talk about this, of course he can't, so he shuffles up straighter in his seat and twists to look at Sumo instead.]

And I can accept a compliment just fine, if I hear one that makes sense. I know there's a lot of shit you haven't got a hang of yet, but you don't compliment a guy for, I don't know, writing a big check to some charity if his check bounces, that's not how it works. Admire someone who's actually done something or, I don't know, find something to say about me that's actually true, then I'll be right there with you, okay?

[More pushback, more deflection — textbook, really. Connor wishes Hank weren’t so stubborn; but then again, so is he.]

So you’re saying that it doesn’t make sense for me to say that the sort of man you were then is still reflected in the sort of man you are now? Look at what you’re doing for me, Hank. [See, no “Lieutenant”.] You can’t possibly say that’s true.

[Hank hooks his chin over the side of the headrest to make up for the way he's sagging, for the way that hackles-up, defensive feeling is pretty much deflating out of him. The easiest way to argue that, see, is to say that trying to save Connor isn't good, isn't worth doing, and Hank's not going to do that. Hank doesn't even consider doing it.]

The guy I was- He's not exactly someone you should be counting on, either. I mean, you know how he ended up. Just, don't thank me for doing anything for you yet, okay? Not until you're safe. Not until you've actually got something to thank me for.

[No. That’s not acceptable either. Connor looks at Hank’s profile, as if trying to draw his gaze towards him — it doesn’t seem to work, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to look away. If he needs to hammer this home, then he will. He should.

(They won’t know what the next day will bring them. Connor might not survive it, his freedom cut short by CyberLife’s sudden wrath. Or a failed revolution where androids were already beginning to be recalled, destroyed. There’s nothing to say that won’t be him sooner rather than later. Surely Hank knows that.)]

No. I want to thank you. You deserve it. And if for some reason I can’t be free, or I don’t make it out of this, I don’t want you to think that you were wrong for trying. That you’re not doing good right now by aiding me.

I’d rather die than be under CyberLife’s thumb again. Than to be a mindless machine. No matter what happens, you’re doing me a favor.

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