Chapter Text
The wind was bitterly cold and howled across the rooftop like a living thing as Connor stepped out onto the concrete surface, snow crunching beneath leather soles. He was unable to feel the chill in the air, but the synthetic skin could sense it all the same. Good. The combination of a freezing night and a military-enforced curfew meant that few (if any) civilians would be out on the streets of Detroit. Less bodies to distract the RK800 from his target. Not that he would let himself be distracted.
Distraction was what had killed his predecessor; a moment of weakness and possible indecision had caused a split-second hesitation that was rewarded with a bullet through the skull. It wouldn’t happen to him.
Amanda’s presence lingered in the far-reaches of his programming, reminding him of the consequences of failure. But she didn’t need to worry. This Connor wouldn’t disappoint her.
His gaze scanned the rooftop for signs of anything that might interrupt his task and found nothing. He walked with a purposeful stride towards the far railing and knelt with the silver case to set up for his final mission. The sniper rifle would have been a heavy weight in a human’s hand, but Connor was not human. It was comfortable in his hands as he slotted the barrel into place, finding purpose in the sleek metal that gave him a clear direction of what to do and who to follow.
The easy slide of the scope along the top was satisfying. It clicked so neatly into place, felt so smooth against his artificial fingers that he dared to take just a moment to indulge in the pleasant sensation. A small sigh passed between his lips as one finger ran in a slow, calculating circle around the head of the scope before lifting to press against his tongue.
He couldn’t taste the metal, but it was cold and clean and precise. Iron and carbon, silicone, copper. The components that made up the end of Markus’s rebellion.
With a small quirk of the lips, Connor fitted the ammo clip into position and fastened the support legs. Soon, soon. Anticipation caused his systems to whirl with artificial endorphins that worked to make him strive towards the mission to achieve the high. His thirium pump was working at a rate of roughly 127%, but well within tolerable boundaries.
He moved towards the edge and balanced the rifle on the railing, leaning his cheek against the barrel and almost nuzzling into the hard, merciless surface. He looked through the scope, searching and altering his position until the sight finally focused on Markus – what an idiot he was, to stand so obviously in the open. Connor didn’t care that the other android’s approach had been peaceful; Markus represented a threat to the entire country with his deviancy programming. But not for much longer.
Connor let out a slow breath of hot air (internal temperatures had risen by .27 degrees) to steady himself as his finger closed around the trigger. A few miniscule adjustments to ensure that the bullet would render Markus utterly broken. He held his breath. He was perfectly still. He began to squeeze the trigger-
“Step away from the edge, Connor!”
A subtle twitch echoed across Connor’s body as so much built-up tension was abruptly snapped. He could have taken the shot, but even a single percent chance of failure couldn’t be tolerated. With Lieutenant Anderson behind him, interfering with his senses, his chance of success was only 94%. Not good enough. Perfection. He had to be the perfect machine.
All the same, he didn’t look away from his target and his finger remained on the trigger, held absolutely still by programmed discipline. Memory archives from the previous Connor told him that the pair had been friends, or as close as it was possible to be friends with a piece of machinery. He calculated that such an approach would have the greatest effect on the human behind him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hank!” He shouted, his voice firm and clear through the cold wind. “This isn’t any of your business!”
“You’re trying to kill a man who just wants to be free, that is my business!” Hanks voice was strained, conflicted, and the words made no sense to Connor.
Markus was not a man. Markus couldn’t be killed. Markus couldn’t be free.
Connor’s brow furrowed slightly and he tore his eyes away from the scope to glance back at the man his predecessor had called ‘partner’. The man was standing roughly five paces away, his features set into a firm frown. He clearly believed in what he was saying and would take more convincing to let Connor do his job.
If Hank truly meant to interfere, Connor’s protocols would allow him to use physical force to remove the obstacle from his mission… but that would take precious time that he didn’t have.
“It’s not a man… it’s a machine!” He looked back to the scope. Markus was still in position, seemingly intent on a drawn-out protest against the android camp.
“You’re wrong, Connor.” Hank stepped forward, and the RK800 turned sharply in case of an impending attack that didn’t come. “That’s what I thought for a long time, but it’s not true! They’re people, like everyone else.” Hank’s tone had dropped slightly, taking on an undercurrent of desperation that most would have missed entirely. It was as if he wanted to actually convince Connor that he was wrong.
The LED flickered yellow for a fraction of a second. It made no sense. Why did the lieutenant want to convince him so badly?
Connor closed his eyes for a moment and rose smoothly to his feet, deciding that a more direct conversation would be more effective. He turned to face the man, deftly holding the rifle in one hand as he surveyed Hank’s troubled features.
“I know about your son, Hank.” More memory logs were activated, and judging by the way Hank’s features flinched, it was a powerful play. “It wasn’t your fault. A truck skidded on the ice and knocked your car off the highway… little Cole had just turned six.”
“Don’t you talk about my son!” The response was a sudden snap, and Connor felt the corners of his lips twitch again into an almost-smile. Hank was so obvious in his reactions.
“He was brought to the hospital, but no human was available to do the surgery, so an android was substituted. An android killed your son, Hank, and now you want to save them!?” His social program added a heightened sense of urgency to his tone; his own attempt to bring Hank to his side.
“No… No!” Hank shook his head and took another step forward. “Cole died because a human was too high on red ice to work. A human killed him! A human in this fucked up world where the only way a person can find happiness is in a fistful of power.” He spat those final words out, as if they had been weighing on him for a long time. The emotion was clear, but then Hank always did wear his heart on his sleeve.
Connor frowned, intending to argue further when a gun was raised to point directly at his chest – his thirium pump. The lieutenant wasn’t stupid; the man knew where to aim to render him immobile.
“That’s enough, Connor. Step away from the goddamn edge!” Again, that desperation; that want.
Why?
Connor looked slowly down to the rifle at his side, then towards the lieutenant. He had to make a choice; discussion had failed, and Hank would interfere with his mission if he remained on the roof. There was the additional option of leaving the sniping spot, but then there would be no guarantee of another opportunity.
It was a choice that was no choice.
Connor moved as if to lower the rifle and waited until he detected a slight relaxation in the man’s arms before suddenly throwing the heavy weapon forwards. Hank let out a cry of surprise, huffing at the impact as he shoved the rifle off to one side – but Connor was right behind it.
A gunshot echoed through the Detroit air that sent a bullet whistling past Connor’s right ear as he forced the man’s arm to the side. His grip on Hank’s wrist was like iron, and with a vicious twist that cause bone to grind against bone, the man cried out in pain and let the weapon clatter to the floor.
Hank’s fist swung with surprising speed for his age, clipping Connor’s cheek and causing his head to snap to the side. The impact did no damage other than a small surface scratch which beaded blue blood across artificial skin. The android didn’t flinch before retaliating, bringing one knee up to connect hard with Hank’s inner thigh which caused him to grunt and stagger backwards.
He pressed his advantage, rushing forwards and shoving Hank against the power shed with a heavy thud, both hands gripping the sides of his head to violently slam it back against the metal structure. This time it was red blood that spilled, spattering the wall as the impact jolted Hank’s skull. Anyone else might have stumbled under the pressure, but through sheer determination Hank kept going.
The man raised his foot to deliver a firm kick to Connor’s gut, mechanical panels grinding slightly beneath the heavy weight of Hank’s boot. They staggered together, each determined to keep hold of the other through their fight. Blows were traded at a terrible speed; fists, feet and knees met skin and plastic until Connor swept the man’s feet from under him to send him falling back against the railing.
It creaked beneath the sudden weight, bending slightly before Connor stepped forward, bringing his foot down in a stomp aimed at Hank’s gut. The man managed to catch the attack and dragged Connor’s foot downwards. Snow was slippery beneath the other foot, which caused him to stagger in order to remain standing. It provided an opening for Hank to get to his feet again, and a fist cracked across Connor’s nose with a sickening crunch that snapped his head back, blue blood running freely from the broken skeleton. It dripped over his lips, obscuring his sensory input with details of his own design and causing momentary confusion. The world spun around him and there was a tugging sensation against the front of his shirt before Connor blinked back to realise his position.
His body was held over the edge of the roof, the railing having tumbled to the ground far below in their scuffle. Hank’s large hands gripped his bloodied shirt – the only form of leverage keeping him from falling backwards.
Risk assessment told Connor that, should he fall, there would be only a 2% chance of survival. He couldn’t fall. He had to use words again. Had to convince Hank not to destroy him.
“It’s the moment of truth, Hank…” He spoke slowly, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the wailing of the wind that buffeted his jacket over the roof’s edge. “Am I a human? Or am I a machine?”
For the first time probability was at 50:50. It was down to Hank.
There was a long pause as the man stared at him, pain evident in the way his eyes faltered, and grip tightened. Hank didn’t know what to do. His mind struggled with the idea that Connor - his partner Connor - was dead. Was the one in front of him really beyond hope? Was there no chance that he’d get to see that goofy smile or sideways wink again?
“… Hank…”
Connor used the silence to speak the man’s name again. He pleaded this time, brows drawing together as he slowly lifted one hand to brush the tips of his fingers against bloodied knuckles which held him fast.
Hank shut his eyes tightly with a grimace and spat out a curse. That damned voice sounded just like his Connor. The voice that used to annoy the piss out of him; the voice that had come to brighten his day; the voice that had managed to convince him that suicide maybe wasn’t the answer. His gut told him that he was about to make a stupid mistake, but the heart overpowered the brain as Hank’s arms moved to draw Connor closer – away from the fatal edge.
“… Connor…?” The name was almost a question. Hoping against hope that the android was somehow not lost to him completely. He pulled Connor towards himself, ignoring the way blue blood smudged down his front as he brought the android into a fierce hug. He squeezed and squeezed, shoulders trembling beneath the pressure as he muttered in a low tone that almost went unheard. “You’ve got to be in there. Fuck, tell me it’s still you.”
Connor blinked into the well-worn fabric of Hank’s jacket, his hands hanging down at his sides as his LED pulsed yellow at an almost frantic pace. This wasn’t one of his projected outcomes. Why was there such a display of affection? He scanned through his memory banks, and while a vast majority of the previous Connor’s interactions with the man were lost to him, he was able to piece together what he had.
The way Hank’s temperature and heart rate elevated whenever they shared a particularly close conversation.
The way Hank gradually relaxed around the android and spoke freely about his innermost demons.
The way Hank put his job – his life – on the line to give the previous Connor a few vital minutes to find Jericho.
It was such an obvious, hopeless love.
Connor lifted his hands slowly to show that he meant the man no harm, one gently gripping Hank’s elbow, the other wrapping around his shoulders to halfway return the embrace. “Hank… I… I feel like I’ve made a terrible mistake…” There was a quiver to his tone to match his suddenly lost expression.
Hank shifted, drawing them a little further from the edge for the sake of safety as he leaned back to look into Connor’s features.
“You’re not messing with me?” He spoke through a shaky breath, his heart thudding faster against his ribs. “You’re him, right? Connor?” A glimmer of hope came to the man’s slate-coloured eyes as he searched for reassurance that he hadn’t lost Connor all over again.
The android smiled, an expression that Hank would find painfully familiar. He leaned closer, fingers ever so slightly tightening their grip on the man’s clothing.
“I am Connor...” He nodded, lips stained blue so very close to the detective’s. “Model RK800, sent by CyberLife to accomplish a task.” His tone dropped to an icy cold to rival the bitter weather, and before Hank had chance to react the android simultaneously jerked him downwards and brought his knee up.
It connected with Hank’s face violently, stunning him for long enough to enable Connor to shove him roughly to the ground, placing a foot firmly across his throat with enough pressure to make breathing difficult. The detective went very still, staring up with wide eyes, fists clenched at his sides.
“And you are Lieutenant Hank Anderson… failure as a detective…”
Connor leaned downwards, that damned smile lingering upon his features.
“… and failure as a father.”