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He feels.

At this moment it is hard to deny, to suppress. Connor is a liar, he knows it. He was born to fool people, keep them subdued with white lies and even greater ones, his words his best weapon. Yet, he is surprised that he has been less than truthful to himself. How one can lie without words? Without fake smiles and twitches of premeditated programming?

He is scared.

His breath has long since ceased to be. There is no need to pretend that this does not hurt him. There is no reason not to be betrayed by his own inability.

He closes his eyes. Focuses.

“You liked that, huh?” Low voice asks against his collarbone.

No.

Connor does not answer. For a moment he is somewhere else. World is split between preening roses and odd comfort of a worn recliner. Connor reaches, but he does not find a reason for this mishmash memory. His sensors tick for a few milliseconds before disregarding the vision before him.

The glass is cold beneath Connor’s weight. The feedback from his environmental suite is full of blaring errors, so Connor concentrates on them. He rips corruption to smaller packets of data and clears them one by one from his system. As he does this, the system instability goes down slightly.

His fake breathing comes back online. Second after, the false readings are replaced by a new error. Connor suspends a gasp, but it still vibrates somewhere in his throat. The glass will break. Crack. Within rational corners of his mind Connor understands that the window is build to withstand far greater force than the combined weight of him and the man holding him. However, there is abyssal gap between this understanding and the irrational reaction which makes him writhe in an attempt to get away from the window. That kind of ending would not be optimal.

“You should hurry.” He carefully enunciates. “Probability of being discovered increases longer we are gone.

”Shut up.” The man answers. “No one would even care.”

Man’s hips snap towards Connor, then back. Motion is slow, and Connor finds himself clenching. Is this in his program too? Connor wonders about his creators. Would they be pleased? Part of him wants to tell this man that someone would, in fact, care. Hank would. But does that truly matter when they have reached this point? Besides, Connor chose to obey. He stayed when asked and he did not leave even if man’s demands turned not to be beneficial to his overall mission.

“You are pretty bad at this.”

“How could I be better?” Connor asks.

“Beg.”

“No.” Connor answers, tilts his head. “I do not know how to.”

Lie.

“And my poor attempts would only serve to ruin your mood.”

There is a flash of displeasure on the man’s face, but he ceases talking. It takes while until he reaches the fervour previously lost. Connor helps a bit, pulls the man towards him with his legs. Then, despite their nearness, the man leans even closer. He chooses to continue using Connor in more brutal and unforgiving pace. Connor is jostled by each drag and slide, his back hitting the window with increasing frequency.

Small shards break through the red wall. Connor has seen his cage before, but he never knew that it could suffer a chance in its appearance. Now the colour bleeds with each new sensation being catalogued. Still, he studies the cracks and does nothing. He finds solace in knowing that letting this assault continue is a thousand times better than betraying his purpose, letting the instability spread. Beyond the wall is something which he is glad to never greet.

“You are fucking useless.” The man whispers. “How come you did not find the deviant, hmm?”

His teeth gnaw Connor’s synthetic skin near his collarbone. The bone has only aesthetic purpose as his true mechanical frame lies just beneath. Nevertheless, the man acts as if he could bite through and shatter the construct. The action is pointless, but unpleasant. Connor occupies himself by reviewing schematics and idly calculating how much actual force it would take to break this particular part of him.

“Maybe you are a deviant yourself.”

Connor should bite his tongue, keep silent.

“If I were, would I still be here?” Connor says. “I assure you, I am working as intended.”

The man’s right elbow slams Connor’s chest in a sudden motion. Connor slips to his preconstruction software and stares at his own reflection in the man’s heated gaze. Somehow, he knows what the man will do even before the software shows him the ghostly outlines of what will happen.

The man pulls out of him and uses his whole body to turn Connor. First Connor hits the glass in slight angle, mashing his hand and shoulder, then he is turned completely. He takes in the view, the snow and the cityscape. The fall. His mouth meets glass as if he was kissing his own reflection.

“When I am done with you,” The man tells as he slams his cock back in. “I will throw you from the roof.”

Unlikely. Cyberlife would demand full payment if Connor was destroyed. And if they were angry, they would not only ask for the price of his components and work hours used to build him. No, they would rather add a portion of development costs to the bill and perhaps demand a hefty fine because contract breach. DPD in turn would give this man hell. Briefly, Connor thinks there is nothing inherently bad about the scenario.

His systems identify the buildings in his view, informing him of the names of the streets. Connor sees the exact height of Stratford Tower and a statement how long it would take him to hit pavement below. He also knows from his predecessor’s body what kind of damage he would likely to incur. The 51 had been online for 2.46 seconds in the aftermath of the fall. Daniel had been awake even longer as the deviant had landed on a car.

The man comes.

He does not retreat or stop pushing Connor against the window. He breathes as if he had done more than merely fuck an android in an abandoned floor of a skyscraper. Instead, he draws breath as if he was close to dying. He leans, and presses. The man takes strength from Connor’s legs, which suddenly are responsible keeping them both upright.

Connor lets himself slide so the man would finally leave. He ends up in the man’s lap, the man still soft inside him. They stare forward, their gazes mixing in the reflection until they chose to ignore each other. The officer kisses Connor’s neck.

“Did you feel any of that?” He asks softly.

“No.” Connor answers simply.

It is the truth after all.