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You would think that Connor would be fine with his deviancy. Ecstatic in fact, but he wasn’t. Something was wrong and he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Everything felt more, well, more. He enjoyed it at times; it was exhilarating. He was able to throw himself into things that he wanted, things that he had cravings for. Able to follow his impulses. But others - sometimes he wished he couldn't feel anything at all. Everything was too real, too intense. He cried and got angry and frustrated when things didn't go his way. Felt things deep in the pit of his gut; unsure of what to call them or where they came from. There was a dull ache to some of the feelings and he wasn't too sure if he liked those ones yet. he felt like a child, unable to control how he felt and how he reacted. To have his emotions so plainly available to him was jarring.
Before he deviated, he was perfectly capable of pushing thoughts and feelings out of his mind. Now, he couldn't just let things go. He held on to moments, on to things that he did and could have done differently. They stayed in his mind no matter how hard he tried. Distractions never worked; he had to adjust to the constant jumble of thoughts-feelings-wants rolling around in his head. A never-ending stream of consciousness that made him miss the bleakness of objections once things became too much. The constant pressure of thought drove him crazy some days. Markus said that he would get used to it; that it would take time to adjust to the lack of objectives and missions. That’s what they always said. “Be patient with yourself, Connor.”, Markus had told him one afternoon. Connor wanted to believe him, he really did, he just felt like most days he wasn’t making progress, and that killed him. He wasn't designed for this. Wasn't designed to not be completing tasks, being useful. Useful was all that he had, so what was he without it?
Connor had gone to Hank for guidance after a while. They had met at the Chicken Feed right after the revolution, basked in their shared relief at the outcome of events. But Connor thought that he should give the man some space. A lot had happened over the course of just a few days and Connor felt like he would be intruding if he wormed his way into the other man's space. If Connor thought about it too long, he could probably convince himself that the man never wanted him around in the first place. Plus, he probably needed time to process things. Just a few weeks ago, Hank had hated androids - loudly and openly - if his desk and his words were anything to go by.
Their first encounter wasn’t the smoothest by a long shot, but things got better. He had gone from hate to helping Connor in the revolution. Over the course of their time together you could see that Hank was warming to the idea of androids being people themselves, but you can't completely change in so little time. Sure, you could say that he didn't really have a choice, being dragged there by his other self, forced to put his life on the line for a group of people who he claimed to have killed his son. But Connor would like to think that Hank knew what he was doing; knew he was getting himself into, knew how much this meant to everyone and to Connor.
Connor went to his home anyway - knocking on the door this time. He almost thought about apologising for breaking his window but thought against it for fear of a negative reaction. He was standing on his doorstep in the pouring rain, asking to be let in. He wonders if the look on his face made Hank feel some sympathy for him. State-of-the-art machine, needing his help. Pathetic. He felt vulnerable and he hated it.
Machines can't be vulnerable. Machines can't show weakness. Machines didn't need to ask for help on how to handle the tangle of emotions in their chest. Machines don't have emotions. Hank had been kind; let him in his home, offered him dry clothes and a place to stay. Connor wasn't sure what he felt at the moment; didn't have a real name for it. But he said thank you and stepped inside. He had been unsure of what to do, how to behave, especially without the objectives popping up in front of his eyes. Hank huffed out a gruff, “Sit down will ya.”
Connor was grateful for the objective, but any relief he got was immediately washed away once it was completed. He sat on Hank’s couch, his frown growing deeper, etching into his face. He wished he knew what to do in this type of situation, but he was at a loss. He knew that Hank had some experience when it came to feelings like this; feeling self-destructive. Connor knew this, had seen evidence of it. He would never forget the slap of fear and worry he felt when he found the lieutenant passed out in the floor if his kitchen. He was hopeful that Hank would know the signs so Connor wouldn’t have to say it aloud. Wouldn’t have to admit to Hank - to himself - that something was wrong. He didn’t even know if he could say what he needed to. He wouldn’t even know what to say. It’s not like he wants to die, quite the opposite, in fact, he just wants everything to stop. If anything, he now feared death more than he did before. Now there was an actual fear, the artificial chemicals in his body were allowing him to feel - really feel - and it was terrifying.
He wished he could just peel back his skin and let Hank in. Let Hank into his mind so he would know - so someone would understand what he was going through. Hank would be able to feel his confusion, his anger, his all-consuming sadness and he wouldn’t even have to say a word; but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do any of those things. He shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t have the desire to share his pain with someone else, be selfish, and seek comfort in someone else. He shouldn’t want understanding and kind words from someone else. He was a machine damnit. He shouldn’t need anything from anyone. He sat on the couch with Sumo at his feet, mind racing, fighting hard to not shake apart at the chaos of his mind.
Connor was startled out of his own thoughts at Hank’s shouting, “Hey, you fall asleep or something? I’ve been calling your name.”
He could do nothing but blink back at him, having to go back a bit in his head to see what was asked of him.
His response was on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped. He was going to chirp out his usual I’m fine. Thank you, lieutenant. But that wouldn’t be very accurate at the moment and Connor had a feeling Hank could read him better than that.