Chapter Text
RK900's introduction into the office was, to put it mildly, incongruous. To put it honestly, it was like introducing a knife to someone's ribcage--painful. Clearly a knife does not belong in somebody's chest, and RK900 clearly did not belong with the DPD.
He watched Connor from across the office. His counterpart sat at his desk, eyes on his terminal, although RK900 could tell that his attention was truly on his partner seated across from him. Connor was smiling as he spoke, a soft expression that conveyed a feeling RK900 could identify but not understand. RK900 had yet to experience "happy."
A pang of emotion caused his mouth to twitch. Jealousy, he thought, although it was often hard to tell it from anger. Connor was an RK800, less advanced than RK900 in many ways; but somehow still better. Connor had come to be accepted, to be liked among his fellows. His partnership with Lieutenant Hank Anderson was amiable--close, even. Connor very clearly belonged with the DPD. He had earned his place, proven himself.
Frowning deeply, RK900 looked away from the other android, forcing his gaze towards his own terminal. It was not fair of him to hate Connor for belonging in this place when RK900 did not. Connor had been in operation far longer, had had more time to adjust to human interaction. RK900 would adjust as well, it would only take time. He had only been there a month, and at a time when tension between androids and humans was at its highest. Connor had been doing his best to help. Truthfully, RK900 could never fully resent Connor, if only for the reason that Connor was also the only one to understand what he was going through.
RK900 had thought that his physical resemblance to his counterpart would lend itself to subconsciously earning him goodwill with the human detectives. It had done the opposite. RK900 made them uncomfortable. His introduction of himself doubled the reaction, although he could not quite understand why. He had been professional but polite: "Hello, I am RK900. It is a pleasure to be joining you."
Perhaps it had been too…robotic.
"Hey, asshole," RK900's own partner snapped his fingers, trying to draw the android's attention. RK900 wondered how long he had been doing that. His senses had a tendency of dulling when he was exploring his newfound emotions, something that irritated him to no end. Of course, his annoyance only ever served to distract him further, and so he repressed the feeling and turned his attention to his partner.
Detective Gavin Reed seemed the most unhappy with RK900's presence. When Captain Fowler had informed the detective that he would be responsible for "showing RK900 the ropes" (he did not bother to inform the Captain that he was programmed for this very purpose and should require no learning curve), the detective had sent RK900 a glare and retorted in no uncertain terms that he would not work with "another plastic fucking prick." Captain Fowler replied in no uncertain terms that that was, in fact, exactly what Detective Reed would do, and the issue was settled.
"Yes, Detective?" RK900 asked, his tone carefully measured to be just the right amount of friendly and professional. That earned him a scowl, although RK900 failed to see why.
"What? Circuits get fried?" The detective demanded, "Didn't you hear me?"
"No," he answered simply, but when that seemed deficient, he added, "I was distracted."
"Thought you pricks didn't get 'distracted.'" Gavin remarked offhandedly. He didn't seem to be looking for any further explanation, however, and RK900 did not think explaining that emotions were not part of his programming (and were thus rightfully distracting) would be productive. "We got a case. Human, found dead in a dumpster uptown. Signs that an android did it."
Gavin glared at RK900 as he said that. Gavin despised being assigned to android-related crimes, and was only made to because he had RK900 for a partner. Much like Lieutenant Anderson and Connor, RK900 and Gavin made the perfect pair to investigate such crimes, particularly when peace between the two races was tenuous at best. Gavin could handle any human elements while RK900 saw to the "plastic" ones, and between them, they should be able to solve their cases diplomatically. Detective Reed clearly didn't see the logic in this; or at the very least, he didn't appreciate it.
RK900 rose, drawing himself out of his chair in a quick, fluid motion. He was quite tall, taller than Detective Reed by three point seven inches. It wasn't a large difference, but RK900 recognized the emotion he felt when reviewing that fact as smug. Gavin Reed may look down on RK900 figuratively, but RK900 did so literally, and he felt that it brought some form of balance. Feeling pleased was as close as RK900 got to happiness, or complacency. He did not share these thoughts with his partner, even as he straightened himself to full height and saw the man's scowl subtly deepen.
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The crime scene was not the most gruesome one RK900 had seen, even in his short time working with the DPD and Detective Reed. Violent crime was rampant following the android revolution. It seemed that the large majority was human-on-android crime, although those were largely assigned to Connor and Anderson. The cases RK900 saw were generally android-on-human, with the occasional overflow cases that the other pair could not possibly take on.
A quick scan of the victim, body lying undisturbed in the dumpster where it had been discovered, revealed all the usual information: His name was Elliot Carmichael. He was forty-three years old, born July 28, 1995. Bruises marked his face and neck, and he sported three stab wounds through his upper abdomen. All three had pierced his lungs. There were no finger prints and no murder weapon to inspect. On a hunch, RK900 leaned in to inspect the man's hands. His fingernails were bloodied, and RK900 suspected that they had been pulled up in a struggle against the harder-than-flesh exoskeleton of a de-skinned android.
Carmichael was currently unemployed, although given his professional attire--a white button-up and khaki pants, both stained down the front with copious amounts of red blood-- and the variety of businesses along this particular block with "Help Wanted" signs displayed (more than a few of them had an additional word tacked on: Human.) RK900 had come to the conclusion that he was job-hunting. His approximate time of death was determined to be eight o'clock the night before, having been discovered this morning by a pair of androids who had retained their jobs as garbage collectors. It was unlikely that the victim had been headed to an interview given the late hour of his death, but it was a possibility that he had been coming from an interview. Or, given the area's desperate need for human workers, several successive interviews. RK900 voiced as much to his partner, who seemed annoyed at the input but not unwilling to follow up on it. They examined the deceased's belongings--his cellphone, assuming he had one, was missing, but not his wallet--and found no notes indicating where he might have been before the dumpster. RK900 suggested that it would be simple work to walk up the block, asking the various store owners if they had seen anything. There was a ninety-three percent chance that this method would turn up results. Reed had again been irritated by the recommendation, but did not disagree.
RK900 silently allowed Reed to take the lead, as he had in their previous cases together. He did his best not to step on the detective's toes, although it was with increasing frustration that he noted it seemed not to be working. His attempts to foster goodwill with the detective were becoming increasingly hopeless, and RK900 was entertaining the fact that perhaps Reed would never do more than simply tolerate his presence. Perhaps none of the detectives would ever do anything other than that. RK900 could be content with tolerance. He was not programmed to be liked, he was programmed to be effective. Perhaps his coding mattered less now than it had before Markus's protests, but it was still the driving force behind RK900's presence with the DPD. So long as he put his abilities to proper use, he would be…satisfied. Even if the only people who seemed to accept his presence were Connor and the lieutenant.
Even as he thought it, he knew "satisfied" was not the right word. Nor was "fulfilled" or "content" or "happy." Simply acting on his purpose was not enough for him now that his encoded shackles had been forcibly removed. It was strange to think that he missed them. At least as a machine, having a purpose would truly be enough for him.
RK900 realized that he had been lost in thought long enough for his expression to have slipped from carefully-molded neutrality to something akin to displeasure. He felt his lips pressed tightly together and drawn into a line, his eyebrows knitted and lowered, his gaze unfocused. He had not heard the conversation between Detective Reed and-- a brief scan-- Emily Scott, owner of a small convenience store a few buildings down from where the dead man was found. They had been in the store for far longer than any of the others. RK900 mentally cursed, realizing that he had missed something important. His emotions, his thoughts, they were becoming a distraction he could not afford. He would have to talk to Connor later, to get advice on how to manage this issue. For now, he rearranged his face into something unreadable and focused in on the interview.
"…about seven o'clock," the woman was saying, "It was late but I'm interviewing for a night shift position, so it isn't unusual for applicants to come in the evening."
"Did you see anything unusual after he left? Or any androids in the area?" Reed asked.
"Well… a few minute after he left--fifteen, or so?-- he came back in the store. I thought he forgot something, but he said that there was someone out there at the end of the street. Watching him. Said the guy was giving him the real creeps. I thought he was just paranoid, but told him he was welcome to stay here until the other guy left."
"And did he?" Reed prompted.
"No. He stuck around for about five minutes, but said he couldn't wait any longer. Said he was going to meet someone for eight, and he didn’t want to be late."
"Did he mention where he was meeting this person at, or what for?"
"I think it was supposed to be a date, but no, he didn't say for sure."
Gavin thanked the woman for her time, gave her a number to call if she remembered anything else. As they stepped out of the store and into the bright mid-day sun, RK900 could see his jaw grinding as he thought.
"Detective." RK900 drew his partner's attention and waited for acknowledgement before continuing. "There was a card in the victim's wallet for a restaurant not far from here. If he returned to the store at approximately 7:15, and left again at 7:20, he would have had ample time to walk the twenty minutes from here to the restaurant in order to make an eight o'clock date. Perhaps we should go there and review the reservation list, or see if the waitstaff recalls a woman stood up by her date."
The detective's jaw ground again. RK900 thought it might be frustration this time.
"Good call, tin can." He said, the insult cancelling out the praise, which didn't sound like praise at all in that tone of voice. RK900 curled his fingers and uncurled them, ignoring the heated annoyance building in his chest.
He said nothing as he followed Detective Reed to his car, and nothing on the short ride to the restaurant, and nothing when they found that Eliot Carmichael did in fact have a reservation for two, and nothing when they got the name of his date from the bill-- Jennifer Alan had two glasses of wine and an appetizer before giving up on her absent date. Detective Reed did not seem to mind his partner's silence. RK900 did not mind not being minded. It gave him more time to think--an activity he was learning to be increasingly dangerous to himself--without risking the scrutiny or scorn of his partner.
Back at the office, they ran the woman's name and found a number for Jennifer Alan. RK900 could hear both sides of the conversation, even though Reed did not put it on speaker-- a practical decision, given the noise in the bullpen, and not one designed to inconvenience RK900. The woman had apparently been the man's neighbor for years before he lost his job--to androids, she added, her voice lowering slightly as though the words were taboo--and moved into a more affordable apartment. They ran into each other again in a supermarket, and he asked her out. Reed asked if the woman knew of anyone who might have had reason to attack Carmichael, human or otherwise. There was a long pause, and the woman's tone dropped again. RK900 had to lean forward to catch her words now. Apparently, Carmichael had an android before the revolution and--while she couldn't be certain--she believed that he had not treated it well. Other than that, she had no idea. She could not specify the model of the android, describing it as "one of those gardening ones. Y'know, the blond, creepy ones. It was male, if that helps."
It did. Gavin hung up the phone and summarized the conversation for RK900, who let him. When Gavin was finished, RK900 paused for a moment--long enough to hopefully convey that he was processing what the detective had told him.
"I believe she was referring to a WR600. This particular model was not widely used for personal households; records show that most WR600's were utilized by the city of Detroit itself rather than individual consumers. It should be easy to scan Cyberlife's records for any WR600 sold for private use, which we can then use to identify this model's serial number."
"Right, right," Gavin nodded slowly, "but how will having the serial number help? I thought your tracking devices all fried or whatever when you deviated."
It was a fair question. While it was true that the tracking devices on deviants no could no longer be traced by conventional means, RK900 was not conventional. Part of the upgrades Cyberlife had installed in him allowed him to "ping" an android's deactivated tracker, so long as he knew their model and serial number. This would force the tracker to reactivate--only for a few seconds at a time, and only once unless he wanted to risk alerting the deviant to its being traced--but it would be enough to get an approximate location on the target. Then, once within a few blocks of the target, RK900 would be able to pick up traces of the android's signal by filtering his input data to only include information from that particular source. It was inexact and required no small level of effort, but it had an eighty-six percent chance of leading them straight to their suspect.
RK900 explained as much to his partner, who stared at him with raised eyebrows and a half-scowl. After a moment with no reaction from Reed, RK900 concluded with, "being a state-of-the-art android detective has its perks."
The scowl fully warped the detective's face, but RK900 could not muster the energy to be bothered this time. He resigned himself to it and pulled up Cyberlife's sales records on his terminal-- a side-effect of the revolution, Cyberlife had to turn their records over to law enforcement so it could be ensured that no android was still being forced to serve. It was a lot, to put it plainly, but once he sorted it by the suspect's particular model, the results became more manageable. It only took him sixty-three seconds to find record of an android matching the one they were searching for.
He tuned his mind into the signal still given off by the tracker, inactive but still functional in the most basic sense. Before pinging it, he reached over an placed a hand on Reed's terminal directly across from his own. His skin retracted, only to the wrist, and he projected a grid-lined map of the city onto its screen.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Gavin demanded, taken aback and clearly annoyed.
"I am going to ping the WR600's tracker. I have not had the…opportunity to do this before, and would rather have you see the signal's location as well. Just in case,"
He added the last part as an afterthought, knowing full well that it was unnecessary for Reed to double-check the location. RK900 was doing so only for the human's satisfaction.
"Alright, creep. Do it."
RK900 did it. For three seconds, a yellow dot danced in one of the map's upper quadrants, and then it faded away.
"So, somewhere near the Cyberlife Tower then." Gavin announced, face clouding over, "Fucking great."
He groaned. RK900 did not respond.
"Maybe we'll get to swing by your house after we find this plastic son-of-a-bitch. Meet your mother…oh, wait." Mockery. RK900 did not respond. He curled and uncurled his fingers, finding the anger harder and harder to ignore.