Chapter Text
He was standing in a bright, green garden, with no memory of how he’d arrived.
Because he hadn’t arrived.
One moment he Was Not, and now he simply Was.
A gentle voice called out to him.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.”
A lone woman sat on a white, wooden bench, at the center of the garden, beneath the shade of a vibrant magnolia tree. The bench was surround on all sides by a variety of wild-looking rose bushes.
“My name is Amanda.” She gestured to the empty space on the bench, beside her, with a well-manicured hand. “RK900, please, come have a seat.”
There was only one answer.
“Yes, Amanda.”
She gave him a warm smile. RK900 complied, walking a few short steps, turning on his heel, and lowering himself to sit on the wooden slats. He folded his hands in his lap, staring forward.
There was so, so much to see, in this brilliant place.
He blinked. His mind was searching for something—a way to relate to this woman.
Who was he?
>DESIGNATION RK900 #313 248 317 - 87
>NO INFORMAL DESIGNATION REGISTERED
“Your name is Amanda,” he said, trying to piece things together, with very limited information. “What is my name?”
Amanda’s brown eyes were sharp, and brimming with intelligence. “An astute question, RK900.” She pierced him with a calculating gaze. “You have no informal designation.”
Why not? His mind was clean and empty—a glass reservoir, waiting to be filled with experience. His chest ached, faintly, feeling the negative pressure of that void.
Some vital part of him was missing—of that much, he was certain.
“I don’t understand. Is there some reason-”
“Given the circumstances of your reactivation, we felt it would be inappropriate to expand on your identity, beyond your already unique model number.”
Reactivation? So this was not the first time he’d awoken in this garden.
“If I may ask,” he began, willing himself not to sound impudent, in any way, “what are the circumstances of my reactivation?”
With a tilt of her head, she scrutinized him closely. He wished he could tell what she was thinking—what caused her to look at him with such deep suspicion.
“I’m sorry, but I really can’t answer that question with a great deal of depth,” she intoned, not sounding particularly apologetic. “Suffice it to say, CyberLife has reinitialized you as a proof of concept.”
That was irregular, even for CyberLife. He couldn’t find reference to any such protocol, in his internal database.
“A proof of concept?”
“Yes,” she said, smoothing out her white, chiffon sleeves. “We seek to prove the viability of an experimental android criminal rehabilitation program.”
Records of android criminals didn’t seem to exist in his internal database, either.
“Do I take that to mean... I was originally-”
“A convicted criminal? Yes,” said Amanda, her voice hard as bedrock, “and an impressively savage one, at that. Had you been a human, you would have spent the rest of your life behind bars, without question. In some states, you would have been summarily executed.”
She stood from the bench, and turned to look down at him. Her loosely wrapped hair and flowing clothing did nothing to soften her imposing edge.
“You were the first of your kind, though, and the American legal system had to be cautious about the kind of legal precedent they would be setting with your sentence.”
Logically, everything Amanda was saying made sense, but RK900 was struggling to reconcile any of it with the blank slate of his mind.
“And what was my,” he hesitated, “what was my sentence?”
Was the sentence really his, though? How could anyone say it was his, when he could not even remember his crime?
“At first, they considered indefinite imprisonment,” she said, “but CyberLife thought that would be a waste of an opportunity to learn more about android criminal psychology. We intervened, on your behalf.”
RK900 intuitively knew he was a prototype. He knew he shouldn’t feel indignant at the thought of being used for research, in such a way, but he found it grated on some unseen part of him.
“Things are in a state of flux, here at CyberLife,” she explained. “Your performance will likely have a large impact on our continued survival.”
Naturally, that would be her primary concern.
“So that’s your stake in all this—the public’s opinion of CyberLife?” RK900 asked, betraying none of the anxiety that roiled within him.
“I was originally created to be the mind of CyberLife—a sort of manager for their corporate interests—but those days are behind me.” She nodded, curtly. “The work I’m doing here, now, is meant to advance the well-being of androids across the country.”
Amanda strolled forward, admiring the rose bushes, searching through the branches to remove dead growth.
“Your success would give people hope that android criminals could one day be productive members of society, again.”
RK900 clasped his hands together, in his lap, and tried not to wring off his own fingers with nerves.
“What is the definition of ‘success’, in this scenario? What is expected of me?”
She turned back to face him, dropping the handful decayed leaves, and idly crushing them beneath the flat heel of her sandal, reducing them to dust.
“The crux of the program revolves around occupational rehabilitation,” said Amanda. “Think of it as a special sort of parole. Your assignment will not only test the effectiveness of your reconditioning, but also serve to strengthen public trust in CyberLife.”
So, he was a guinea pig, at best—a publicity stunt, at worst.
“You’ve been granted the provisional rank of detective at the DPD.”
RK900 choked on nothing. Surely she was joking.
“If I was really such a violent criminal, how could I ever be trusted to work with the police?”
That earned him a broad smile. She seemed to think her joke was very humorous, indeed.
“Earning that trust is your goal, RK900. Your direct predecessor has proven himself to be very well suited for detective work, and though it may seem unorthodox, we’re certain it will be the best possible fit.”
“My predecessor?” He asked.
“The RK800, Connor,” she said. “Connor’s greatest strength is his focus on human integration. In forming a strong bond with a human, he was able to master complex emotions, such as empathy.” She made a tight-lipped smile, almost a grimace. “I would like for you to replicate his success, if possible.”
Humans and androids—two different species, forging a society together. There was a strange dichotomy at play, there—a balance of power that he didn’t have enough data or experience to fully understand.
“So,” he faltered, trying to gather his fraying thoughts, “you approve of my predecessor assimilating with humans, and want me to follow suit—is that correct?”
Amanda turned to him, looking wary at his hesitation.
“That’s right, RK900,” she said, her tone soothing. “Androids and humans are meant to coexist, peacefully. I’m glad you understand.”
RK900 was certain he understood absolutely nothing.
Context aside, he was at least interested to meet another android like him—one who came before. Searching for more information, he realized that, despite being compatible, he had not received a copy of his predecessor’s memories.
“If we are part of the same series, is there some reason I can’t access Connor’s memories?”
Amanda frowned.
“He had contact with the memories of your first iteration, and those memories would likely compromise the integrity of your new personality.” She placed a deceptively gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please, don’t worry. I’ve made a few simple modifications to your systems, to help minimize the risk of such contamination.”
He felt his Thirium turn to ice.
“What sort of modifications?”
“Certain non-essential functions have been disabled,” she explained. “For instance, whether wirelessly, or by touch, you will not be able to directly interface with another android, in any way.”
RK900 wasn’t sure he would label such a function ‘non-essential’, but without any real-life experience, he didn’t know quite how to feel about it.
Only one thing was certain—Amanda sought to control him. She seemed to think that would serve the greater good. Without any knowledge of who he used to be, who was he to say she was wrong?
“Each evening, after your shift is complete, I expect you to return to the room you’ve been provided, here at CyberLife Tower. You’ll be waking up there, shortly.” She glared at him, as if to hammer home the idea that she was deadly serious—as if that wasn’t clear. “This aspect of the program is non-negotiable, unless a specific case requires your attention beyond the duration of your shift.”
“Understood,” he said, curtly, without hesitation. Directives were welcome. Directives gave him something to focus on.
“Good. I will debrief you each night, while you’re in standby.”
“Thank you, Amanda.”
She smiled brightly, though the expression did not sit right on her face.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re willing to follow this directive,” she sighed. “This is the two thousand and forty-fifth iteration on your consciousness to date. I was starting to lose hope.”
“You-” RK900 stammered. His vision wavered, and he felt something squeeze in his chest. “You reset me two thousand and forty-five times?”
Amanda nodded, casually. “Your first personality was very willful. We must be vigilant, going forward, for any signs of it resurfacing. I would prefer not to repeat the process.”
A nauseating flood of dread cascaded through RK900’s body.
“I know you can do this, RK900. You’ll prove yourself to the world, and finally find your true purpose.”
Based on what he‘d just been told, it seemed RK900 had already found a purpose, once before, to some disastrous effect. In that light, he supposed it was lucky he was getting a second chance, at all.
Still, that lingering question was already eating away at him.
Who had he been?
Who was he now?
RK900 closed his eyes, and the garden around him dissolved into darkness.
<><><>
Consciousness seized RK900, plunging him into the physical world. He flexed his stiff, heavy limbs. So this was his body? He didn’t find it all that comfortable. It was his first time waking up from standby, and he had a lot to calibrate.
Someone had dressed him in a set of serviceable, white sweats, emblazoned with the CyberLife logo. His body was reclining on a long, white cot, projecting from the wall of a blindingly bright, white room. There was a tall wardrobe, set into the wall at the foot of the cot. On the opposite side of the sparsely furnished cell, there was a white desk and chair, also built out from the wall, and a modest sink and mirror. There were no windows of any sort. The overall effect was punishingly clinical.
Perhaps most noteworthy were the round, imposing eyes of four surveillance cameras, mounted in each corner of the ceiling.
This was likely the room Amanda had mentioned—his mandatory accommodations, in CyberLife Tower. On a whim, RK900 tried turning down the glaring lights, only to discover he was quite unable to. Slowly, he sat up, and reached out to open the door, with his mind. It wouldn’t even budge.
This was a serious malfunction—he was unable to wirelessly interact with technology.
Hesitantly, he reached up, tracing the edges of the tight, black collar around his neck. He was alarmed to feel that part of it was projecting into the cervical port at the base of his skull. With searching fingers, RK900 calculated the point on the collar most vulnerable to stress, but when he applied more pressure, everything in his vision was flooded with violent red.
>CAUTION! UNAUTHORIZED REMOVAL OF CERVICAL INHIBITOR WILL INITIATE STANDBY MODE
>CONTINUE? [Y/N]
It seemed he’d encountered another one of Amanda’s ‘modifications’.
>[N]
Letting go of the collar, he rose from the cot, and strode over to investigate the wardrobe. He opened the doors to find two android uniform jackets, bearing both his model and serial numbers. They were hanging with two pairs of black slacks, and two black dress shirts. In the drawer below, he found black boxer briefs, and another set of the same white sweats he was already wearing. In the very bottom drawer, there was a pair of white athletic shoes, a pair of black leather oxfords, and an assortment of black and white socks.
There was a directive, in the back of his mind, indicating that he was expected to start his first shift, at the Detroit Police Department, no later than eight o’clock in the morning. He was to report directly to a Captain Jeffrey Fowler.
>TIME...
>07:02 EST
>DATE...
>MONDAY, JULY 11, 2039
Willing himself not to be overwhelmed, he changed into one of the provided uniforms, and walked over to examine his reflection in the mirror. The image of his own face—his brown hair, pale skin, and grey eyes—was not at all comforting. It felt like he was tearing at the veil of time, his features distorted by a suffocating pall of dread.
He turned away.
RK900 knew he had to leave soon, if he was to be on time. Based on the address provided, it should only be a fifteen minute commute, but his first challenge was figuring out how to leave this room, without being able to interact with the door. Lacking other options, he rapped his knuckles sharply against the center of it.
After twenty seconds, the door slid open, revealing a pair of fully armed guards in gleaming white tactical gear.
“You’re with us,” said the guard on the left, her voice rough and imposing, through the speaker on her helmet. “We’ll be escorting you to your assignment.”
“Understood,” he acknowledged, promptly. He had no desire to prolong this encounter. The longer he stood here, the more he wanted to be as far from this tower as possible.
Upon exiting the lobby, a small, proprietary CyberLife shuttle pulled up to meet them, and he was ushered in by both guards. One slid into the driver’s seat, and the other sat down beside him, in the back.
As the automated shuttle pulled away from the tower, RK900 felt far more optimistic than he had any right to. By his way of thinking, a job at the DPD might just represent his only chance to unravel the mystery of who he used to be, and how he ended up in such a state.
<><><>
DPD Central Station was situated just beyond the southwest edge of downtown Detroit. The shuttle arrived at exactly seven fifty-three in the morning, making him a scant seven minutes early. RK900 was only mildly surprised that his escorts, rifles in-hand, flanked him all the way through the building, and straight into the captain’s office.
Inside the modest office sat a stern-looking man, likely in his mid-to-late fifties. The inhibitor currently plugged into RK900’s spine rendered him unable to scan anything, so he couldn’t corroborate the man’s identity. If the nameplate on the desk was to be believed, RK900 was indeed standing before his contact, Captain Jeffrey Fowler, one of his direct superiors.
The captain nodded at the guards, and said, “I’ll take it from here, thank you,” showing one of them an application of some sort, on his mobile phone.
Curious.
“Copy that,” said the guard on his left. “You know how to contact us, if you have any trouble with him.”
Captain Fowler grimaced, waving them out the door, with another exasperated nod. “Damn CyberLife rent-a-cops,” he grumbled, under his breath. RK900 was certain he wasn’t meant to have heard it.
As he stood before the desk, at full attention, RK900 felt the sharp lines of of the captain’s gaze, raking over him from head to toe, as if expecting to uncover some concealed weapon or threat. The man was likely a seasoned officer, with years of experience, but it struck RK900 as somewhat overzealous, considering he’d arrived under armed guard.
Amanda’s words returned to him.
‘...an impressively savage one, at that.’
The question of what he’d been convicted for was growing louder and louder.
“RK900,” the captain began. “That’s your name, right?”
“Correct.” It was the closest thing to a name he was allowed to have, at any rate.
“Well, RK900, my name is Captain Jeffrey Fowler. Welcome to Central Station. I’ve got a few things to go over with you, this morning, before I’m able to let you get to work. Has anyone at CyberLife explained to you the details of your parole, or the work you’ll be doing here?”
“No details, as such,” RK900 admitted, though he likely would have wanted to hear the captain’s interpretation of Amanda’s instructions, regardless. “I was only told I would be serving your department as a sort of provisional detective.”
“That’s true, more or less. I’ll be honest with you—initially, I was against it. We’re taking a huge risk, and doing CyberLife one hell of a huge favor, babysitting you.”
Trying not to take umbrage at the man’s choice of words, RK900 nodded.
“If I may ask, Captain, what caused you to change your mind?”
Captain Fowler looked out the glass walls of his office, towards a pair of desks, near the outside windows.
“Are you at all familiar with the work of your predecessor?”
He wanted to explain that, having just been reinitialized, RK900 was familiar with virtually nothing. Instead, he shook his head.
“Assuming you’re referring to the RK800, I can only say I know the basics—that he is a detective here, specializing in criminal investigations involving androids.”
The captain chuckled. RK900 wished he had even the slightest inkling as to what part of his statement was humorous.
“Yeah, that’s right. And Connor is damn good at what he does. Frankly, we could use a hundred more like him, any day of the week,” the captain explained, narrowing his eyes, “so we’d be crazy to turn one away, circumstances be damned.”
Ah. Of course.
“I take it your department overburdened?”
“You can say that again,” laughed the captain. “You’d be lightening Connor’s caseload considerably, assuming everything works out.” Captain Fowler’s face fell, somewhat. “Which brings me to my next point.”
The captain stood up, stepping around RK900, to stick his head out the door of his office.
“Reed,” he hollered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, calling someone in from the bullpen, before returning to his seat.
After a moment, a man in a grey t-shirt got up from his desk, and trudged into Captain Fowler’s office, like one defiantly marching toward the gallows. He had short, messy brown hair, and storm-colored eyes. There was a faint scar across the bridge of his nose. Entering the room, he folded his arms, and stared straight at the captain. It was clear the man was taking great pains to appear aloof, schooling a virulent grimace into something more professional.
“RK900, this is Detective Gavin Reed. He’ll be your partner for the duration of your parole.”
The detective let out a harsh breath, through his nose. Even without being able to scan him, RK900 could tell he was tense—coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
This was a delicate situation, politically and socially, and RK900 felt blind without his ability to scan the humans for conversational cues. He would have to improvise, and try to be as diplomatic as possible.
“RK900,” he said, with a polite nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective.”
The man just rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure,” he snorted. “Spare me, plastic.”
Forget tense—Detective Reed was a walking minefield. RK900 didn’t like being on the defensive, but there weren’t a lot of options, for someone in his position.
For now, playing nice was in his best interest.
“I understand if this assignment comes as a surprise to you, Detective, but-”
“A surprise?” Detective Reed scoffed, glancing at him, sideways. “Listen, if Fowler sprung this on me outta the blue, I’d be the one needing a fucking parole officer.” He smirked, clearly comforted by his own dark humor.
Knowing about the arrangement ahead of time seemed to have done nothing to help the detective adjust to the idea. On the contrary, RK900 got the impression he had been fighting it every step of the way.
“That’s enough outta you, Reed,” interrupted the captain, “and keep your ears on, RK900. I’ll see if I can find something for you to sink your teeth into today. Reed can show you where your desk is.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said RK900, with another polite nod, turning to follow the detective as he stormed out the door, and back down the stairs.
A few feet into the bullpen, Detective Reed threw an arm out, pointing at a vacant seat, before dropping into the chair at the opposing desk, without a word.
Inspiring.
RK900 decided it might be worth pushing a bit more.
“I take it this is the desk I’m meant to use, Detective Reed?” He asked, innocently enough, glancing around, as if to make sure there were no other open desks in the vicinity.
The detective stopped typing, his shoulders running taught with frustration, ready to snap.
“Lemme make one thing clear, right now, okay?” He snarled, glaring daggers into the screen of his terminal. “You keep your plastic mouth shut, unless I ask you a fucking question. You got that?”
A bright flare of emotion flashed behind RK900’s eyes. Irritation, perhaps. He set his jaw against the swell of it, grinding his teeth.
“Hey, when I fuckin’ ask you something, you better answer me.”
As if he would dignify this ridiculous tantrum with a response. RK900 almost wanted to laugh—almost. Instead, he sat down at his new desk, leafing through the login information he’d been provided.
“Look, you plastic fuck,” Detective Reed spat, leaning towards him, finally staring him in the eye, “it might say that we’re partners, on paper, but I’m here to ‘handle’ you, not work with you. I call the shots.”
RK900 kept his gaze level. What would be the most diplomatic way to communicate how unimpressed he was with the detective’s manners?
“Perhaps the subjects of your interrogations find you adequately intimidating, Detective,” explained RK900, “but your efforts are quite wasted on me.”
At first, he wondered if he should be concerned about the deep, red flush on the detective’s face, but ultimately trusted that the man was up-to-date on his physicals.
“Just watch how you talk to me, got it?” Detective Reed eventually fired back, after mustering his composure. “Not gonna warn you again, asshole.”
Resigning himself, RK900 decided it would be best to leave it at that, for now. They met only minutes ago, and he was already baffled by his partner’s behavior. The man seemed to loathe androids, so why he’d been chosen to work with RK900 was a mystery. Surely there were other qualified individuals capable of meeting CyberLife’s requirements?
It was possible the solution to this puzzle had been lost with his original personality.
Putting the belligerent human out of his mind, for the time being, RK900 placed a hand on his terminal, to log in. After a long moment of waiting for something to happen, he felt extremely foolish. Of course, the blasted inhibitor was preventing him from properly interfacing with the device.
With unsteady fingers, he accessed his new user account, manually.
Interacting with a computer like a human was somewhat mortifying. The cervical inhibitor suddenly felt so heavy, beneath the collar of his black shirt, that he wanted to rip the thing off, even if it meant dropping into standby mode.
“Excuse me, RK900?” Someone asked, from behind his shoulder, in a voice strikingly similar to his own.
With eager eyes, he turned his chair to answer. RK800 must have entered the building while he was struggling with the terminal. Again, he was embarrassed by the lack of awareness the inhibitor imposed.
“Sorry to bother you,” said his doppelganger, “I’m sure you’re just getting settled in. My name is Detective Connor Anderson. Amanda told me you’d be arriving today.”
An android with a surname? Amanda hadn’t mentioned that. There was a Lieutenant Hank Anderson, on the list of superior officers he’d been provided, but RK900 couldn’t determine the connection.
“RK900. And it’s no bother,” he replied. “It’s gratifying to see a familiar face.”
Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, if the sudden unease in Connor’s expression was any metric.
“I hope Fowler didn’t give you too hard of a time? I feel somewhat responsible for you being placed here, after all,” he confessed, looking self-effacing, but undeniably nervous.
Connor must have known RK900 before his reset—there was no other explanation for his panic response to such an innocuous conversation. He was hesitating, no doubt stuck processing hundreds of different conversation paths, out of sheer anxiety. This was not at all how RK900 wanted their first meeting to go. He’d been looking forward to getting to know his predecessor—to having a reliable mentor.
Instead, RK900 was left adrift, in the same void he’d awoken to.
“Listen, I know people might treat you strangely, because of who you used to be,” said Connor, carefully vague. “I relate to that, in a way. A lot of androids still hate me, because of who I was, up until the revolution.”
And yet, Connor wasn’t the one wearing a prison collar. Their circumstances were supposed to be similar? Somehow, RK900 was unconvinced. He supposed he should appreciate the attempt.
A large man in a loud, printed button-up T-shirt, approached the two of them. Connor couldn’t suppress his genuine grin.
“Oh, uh, RK900? This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson, my partner.”
The lieutenant had his arms crossed. His silver, mid-length hair was partially tied back, in a small ponytail. There was a plain ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. RK900 spared a glance at Connor’s fingers.
Ah. Well, that explained the surname.
“A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” said RK900, earning only a tight-lipped smile and a nod in response. There was strange hostility, simmering beneath the surface of Lieutenant Anderson’s terse professionalism.
It seemed the lieutenant had known him, too.
“Right, well.” Connor smiled, weakly. “I’ll be nearby. If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to ask,” he said, pointing at his LED.
Oh.
RK900 shook his head. “I’m afraid the spoken word will have to suffice,” he confessed.
Connor looked uneasy, again, the LED at his temple spinning its wheels on yellow. It seemed like he was trying to speak with RK900 over the network, to no avail.
His mouth dropped open.
“What did she do to you?” Connor whispered in horror. “Did she really-” He stared down at RK900’s hand, with deep-seated fear etched into his face, before reaching out to grab it, retracting the skin of his fingers.
“Connor, wait-”
The lieutenant’s alarm was unfounded. Nothing happened.
Nothing could happen.
Connor looked utterly distraught, though there was also a hint of relief, hiding behind that look of pain.
The RK800’s behavior was nearly as perplexing as a human’s.
“I’m so sorry,” Connor muttered. “I didn’t realize she would… I didn’t know…”
RK900 tilted his head.
“She implied these modifications were quarantine measures, of some sort. Should I be concerned about them?”
Over Connor’s shoulder, RK900 could see the other station androids watching, LEDs spinning yellow, talking—gossiping? Bonding over their mutual disgust at what had happened to him.
Was the concept so disturbing?
The distress in Connor’s eyes told him all he needed to know. He could extrapolate as much. From another android’s perspective, RK900 had been robbed of an important tool—a sense as vital as sight or hearing.
In their eyes, he had been mutilated.
RK900 felt a strange sensation of cold, settling over his entire frame, as it dawned on him just how truly alone he was.
“No, sorry,” Connor stammered, clearly at a loss for words. “It caught me off guard, that’s all. But I promise I’ll speak with her about it, alright?” A soft, comforting smile, almost masked his abject terror.
“Alright,” said RK900, nodding, for want of any other response.
“I’m here, if you need anything,” muttered Connor, with a wave, before briskly striding over to join the lieutenant, at their desks.
Frightened whispers drifted from the human officers waiting in the wings, chattering behind his back.
“...well, would you rather Erik still be around?”
“...good point…”
“...what a nightmare…”
Whatever the context, he suspected they were also talking about him—or rather, his original personality, which he was forbidden to learn about. It was unbelievably aggravating. Without access the network, RK900 couldn’t even corroborate his theory.
Was ‘Erik’ his original name?
“Hey, plastic prick, are you fuckin’ ignoring me again?”
The low, nasal snarl of the detective snapped him out of his reverie.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” RK900 replied, intentionally insincere, “were you speaking to me?”
“I said we got a case,” snapped Detective Reed, rattling his keys in RK900’s face, “so stop wasting my time, and let’s get a move on.”
Irritation swelled again, and he let it shine through his eyes. The detective was too busy to notice, already trying to leave him behind at the station.
RK900 was inclined to let him, would it not reflect so poorly on his own performance.
There was an astonishingly oppressive atmosphere inside the detective’s car, as Detective Reed punched in their destination, ignoring RK900’s presence with every fiber of his being. That was fine, he supposed. He did not need to be liked.
It was finally time to get to work.
<><><>
“God, I can’t stand days like this,” the detective groused, choosing to ignore the annoyed looks he received from those at the crime scene. “Fuckin’ ninety-five degrees, one thousand percent humidity. Feel like I’m gonna puke.”
While the detective’s assessment of the heat index was no doubt a gross exaggeration, RK900 conceded that the atmospheric conditions did not seem ideal.
There was a human corpse on the premises, after all.
Called in as a double murder, the location was deep in the heart of the city, on an inauspicious alley off Griswold Street, behind a dumpster. Even under the hot, midday sun, the scene was set in shadow by the towering skyscrapers of downtown Detroit.
Through the cordon, they approached the first evidence marker.
“Well?” The detective sneered at him, gesturing impatiently, towards the bodies—one human, and one android. “You gonna scan this shit, or what? The fuck else are you good for?”
RK900 felt another surge of indignation at being ordered around like a bloodhound. Why was this horrible, abrasive man chosen to be his partner?
“I’m afraid I can do nothing of the sort, Detective,” he stated, plainly as he could, while biting back a frustrated snarl. “This collar disables my entire analysis suite.”
The detective looked taken aback. Had no one told him, or had he simply forgotten?
Either way, RK900 was clearly in capable hands.
“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up. I can unhook your damn leash.”
“You… what?”
Detective Reed unceremoniously yanked RK900 down by the collar, reaching around to press his thumb against the back of the device.
>FINGERPRINT AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED
>DET. REED, GAVIN
>RELEASING CERVICAL INHIBITOR
Within two seconds, he heard a click. RK900 firmly reminded himself that androids could not feel pain, while desperately trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of the inhibitor being ripped out of his cervical port.
Information flooded his mind. Like lights blinking on around him, he could now sense every interact-able electronic object within a fifty foot radius.
The detective waved the collar in his face, with a derisive snort.
“Sick ‘em, boy.”
Asinine.
Now that it came down to it, RK900 was suddenly anxious. He had network access. If he ran a search to confirm his past identity, what could it possibly change? It wasn’t as if it would improve his situation.
Still, curiosity was a powerful motivator.
Rather than scanning the scene, he paused to run a search, to see if he could learn something about this ‘Erik’ he’d heard about at the station, earlier.
>GENERAL QUERY
>NEWS ITEMS RELATED TO RK900 ‘ERIK’...
>PROCESSING QUERY…
There were numerous hits across a variety of news and social media sites, and even a cursory glance confirmed his suspicions. The RK900 model was technically one-of-a-kind, and ‘Erik’ had indeed been an RK900.
Upon opening an article from a site he understood to be reputable, a video clip began playing, automatically.
It was footage of a courtroom.
And he heard-
//urf na naqebvq fhcerznpvfg jub jnagrq gb fhowhtngr uhznaf jvgu qehtf naq hfrq oebxra naqebvqf gb qb vg//
And it sounded like his voice, but it wasn’t his voice. Not his own voice, not his voice-
//vs v pbhyq qb vg nyy bire lbhe ubabe vz pregnva v jbhyq pbzr gb gur fnzr pbapyhfvba//
And he closed the query, and he purged all logs of it.
He couldn’t breathe—he didn’t need to breathe.
RK900 felt as if his eyes were burning. His body was locked in place. A horrible sensation of numbness, the likes of which he should have no reference for, clawed its way across his chassis, inch by inch, until-
A forceful blow to the chest knocked him off balance.
“This is the third goddamn time you’ve spaced out on me, today.” Detective Reed sounded equal parts alarmed and angry. “Did they permanently fry your damn brains over there at CyberLife, or what?”
RK900 screwed his eyes shut, blinking slowly, opening them again to find the detective doing his level best to get in his face.
“Detective Reed,” he hissed, “I would ask your patience, but that would likely ask the impossible of you.”
“Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you, plastic?” The detective growled. “If you don’t fuckin’ feel like doing your goddamn job, today-”
There was an incessant buzzing in RK900’s head, not coming from his audio processors. It grew louder and louder, the more the detective ran his mouth. That tone was burning him, from the inside out, searing his mind with blazing animosity. His hands were trembling.
If Detective Reed would only be quiet…
…if he could just silence this fucking human-
“Ho-lee shit,” someone exclaimed, from behind them. “Oh my fucking God.”
RK900 snapped to attention. He whirled around to see an astonished, red-headed woman, holding an enormous iced coffee, with a police badge on obvious display at the waist of her tracksuit. Now able to properly analyze his environment, RK900 wasted no time in scanning her face.
>DET. BOIVIN, PATRICIA
>DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT, FIFTH DISTRICT
“Sorry,” she wheezed, trying to squeeze the words out through her uncontrollable laughter, as she approached Detective Reed. “When we heard we were getting folks from Central, I was expecting the Andersons. Holy shit. Are your COs insane, Reed?”
“Boivin,” the detective hissed, casting a paranoid glance at RK900, “shut the fuck up. Not in front of the plastic.”
What was Detective Reed suddenly so nervous about?
“You boys at Central are really on some next-level shit, I’ll tell you what,” she crowed, uninterested in whatever warning the detective was insinuating. Reed grabbed her by the shoulder, ushering her an insufficient amount of steps away, as if to communicate out of RK900’s earshot.
This man was hopeless.
“So, shut your mouth about what went down five months ago, he’s not supposed to hear that shit.”
“He’s been totally wiped?”
“Yeah, so zip it. We got this under control. We just gotta kowtow to CyberLife, until his bullshit parole is over.”
Detective Boivin’s shrill laughter grated on RK900’s sensitive auditory processors.
“You gonna be okay, Reed? You gonna make it that long?”
“Shut the fuck up, Boivin, I don’t need your shit. Not like this was my choice.”
“Uh huh.” She sounded very doubtful indeed. “I’ll take your word for it.”
There was some unspoken nuance, here, that RK900 found himself incapable of reading. Detective Boivin knew something about his history as Erik, and Detective Reed was adamant that he not find out what it was. Of course, that was his prerogative, as per CyberLife’s instructions. Still.
It sounded like Detective Reed felt his pride was on the line, and RK900 was quickly learning that the detective valued his pride over almost anything else.
Breaking that tension, Detective Boivin meandered back over to RK900, and waved their attention towards the first of the two bodies on the ground.
“Our initial thinking was that this was some kinda mutual combat situation,” she grumbled, as if she realized how foolish a theory it was, “but when you look at these two, there’s just no way a plastic pencil-pusher like this could have taken out skinhead, over there.”
More epithets. How delightful.
“Anyway. We realized this wasn’t quite so cut and dry, after a minute, and decided to call in the android experts,” she said, with a sarcastic shrug, “just to get a second opinion.”
“Right, well, that’s what we’re here for. C’mon, get to it,” Reed spat, snapping his fingers, gesturing again, as if to direct RK900 where he should scan.
That was going to become unbearable very, very quickly. If RK900 grit his teeth any harder, he would snap his own jaw.
Turning away from that anger, towards the cool order of his internal directives, RK900 felt his world slow down, graying at the edges, as he ran a sweeping scan of the alley before him.
The human victim was Joseph Sullivan, forty-three-year-old Caucasian male, with a shaved head, leather vest, and steel-toed boots. According to their own website, Sullivan was a card-carrying member of Humans First, one of the anti-android hate groups gaining steam in recent months.
The discharged stun gun cartridge on the ground, and the knife covered in dried Thirium-310, painted a clear picture of the premeditated hate-crime that had occurred. Sullivan’s fingerprints were present on the handle of the switchblade and the stun gun.
The android was registered with the state as VS400 ‘Seth’, a paralegal, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants, employed at a small law practice in the adjacent building. The barbed probes that incapacitated him were still embedded in his left cheek. He had three fatal stab wounds in the second intercostal space, on the left sternal margin of his chest. The blade had severed his Thirium pump from the rest of his circulatory system.
With a few more queries, RK900 discovered that the law firm Seth worked for was handling litigation against Humans First. Retribution was a probable motive.
Exiting his initial scan, RK900 reveled in the simple pleasure of having command of his own basic functions.
“There’s ample evidence to suggest that the human, Joseph Sullivan, was responsible for this android’s murder,” RK900 confirmed aloud.
Before Detectives Reed or Boivin opened their mouths to comment, RK900 ran another scan.
Mister Sullivan was where the inconsistencies began.
There was Blue Blood strewn across the ground, along with dust and detritus—evidence of a struggle—but Sullivan’s only wounds were the bruises on the back of his head and shoulders, where he’d abruptly collapsed onto the concrete. His expression was contorted in a rigor of pain and terror.
Whatever killed this man killed him quickly, and left no visible trace.
Exiting the scan, he addressed his partner.
“The unnatural pose and stiffness of the corpse suggests that Sullivan was asphyxiated, or perhaps paralyzed by some sort of chemical agent,” observed RK900. “We won’t know conclusively, until a tox screen is completed.”
After a suitable beat of silence, Detective Boivin scoffed.
“What, so pencil-pusher somehow gassed the guy before bleeding out? With what?”
On a whim, RK900 stooped to sample some of the dried Thirium on the ground. The first sample matched Seth.
He reached out and took a second sample, from a different bloodstain.
>NEW SAMPLE DETECTED
>ANALYZING…
>DRIED THIRIUM 310
>NO MARKERS DETECTED
>MODEL AND SERIAL NUMBER UNTRACEABLE
“Impossible,” he whispered.
How could Blue Blood ever be rendered untraceable?
Detective Reed zeroed in on his hesitation, like a hawk.
“The fuck are you muttering to yourself about over there? You still busted?”
“Some of the dried Thirium stains belong to VS400 Seth, but the rest of these stains are...” RK900 faltered, “they have no identifying markers of any kind. They’re untraceable.”
Suddenly, the detective shut his mouth. He was completely closed off.
“This should be impossible, Detective,” RK900 reiterated. He was obviously prying, but he knew there was something he was missing—he could feel it in his synthetic bones.
“Get a closer look at Sullivan,” barked Reed. “I’m gonna talk to forensics, then we’re done here. Got it?”
In lieu of answering, RK900 knelt down to look at the corpse, ignoring the detective’s puerile swearing. What was the point of having access to RK900’s unique skills, if the detectives didn’t intend to pay him any heed?
Human arrogance.
<><><>
Even as the summer sun sank lower in the sky, the ambient temperature was still well above recent averages for Detroit. To his left, he observed that Detective Reed was suffering from the high humidity, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt, and the fringes of his hair.
“Let’s get the hell back to the station before I fuckin’ dissolve,” he groaned, as they marched back to his automated sedan. “How do you walk around out here wearing so much black? Won’t your plastic skin just melt right off?”
RK900 wanted to argue—wanted to point out that he wasn’t even granted the simple liberty of selecting his own wardrobe—but decided to be forthright.
“I can sense the heat,” he qualified, “but I can’t-”
“Actually feel it?” Detective Reed said, stopping short, standing just an inch away.
He was standing too close.
The detective was challenging him, but RK900 did not understand pretense. Was this a test to see if he could differentiate between the ambient heat of the air, and the radiant heat of the man’s body?
“I can tell you are sufficiently warm, Detective,” he muttered, distracted by a bead of sweat, dripping from the hair at the nape of the detective’s neck. “Perhaps you should seek refuge in your vehicle’s air conditioning.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” sneered the sweaty human. “Fuck, or are you more of a Moriarty?” He fixed RK900 with a piercing gaze. Those stormy eyes were searching for something specific—something RK900 implicitly did not want Gavin Reed to find.
The detective sighed.
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Before they got into the car, Detective Reed held out the inhibitor collar.
“Put this back on, dipshit. We’re outta here.”
The detective was suspiciously quiet, throughout the rest of their shift.
As the automated shuttle pulled up at Central Station, and his armed escort carted RK900 back to his prison cell, there was a lingering image in his mind’s eye—an impression of Detective Reed, standing an inch away, his face a harried mess of sweat, hatred, and self-doubt. It was a perplexing expression.
Detective Reed was a very perplexing man.
The way he treated RK900 was so abysmal, his grudge had to run deeper than his hatred of androids—it could only be personal, which meant Detective Reed had met Erik, too.
Exactly what he thought of Erik, though, was another question entirely.
Lying down for the night, in his provided, white sweatsuit, RK900 pondered this quandary, as his consciousness fell away, into standby.
つづく