Chapter Text
If there’s one thing Connor isn’t good at, it’s following orders.
He’s everything else a person on the police force would want in a partner. For starters, he’s inhumanly fast and doesn’t tire nearly as quickly as a human would in a chase. He can scan his surroundings within a few mile radius in seconds flat, pinpointing minute details that the human eye never could. He’s patient under the stress of work and built with an intuitive mind that can figure out possibilities that could be impossible for others to draw as quickly. He’s smart and keen, structured with analysis abilities in his systems to detect lies from miles away. And above it all, he’s nothing short of adaptable.
But able to follow orders?
That is one of Connor’s flaws.
Hank realized this one little fault of Connor’s during their first investigation together, all the way back in November. He ordered him to stay in the car at the scene of the homicide of Carlos Ortiz, and then he didn’t. He told him to stop tasting the victim's blood at every location, and then he didn’t. He told him countless times to just leave his hungover ass the fuck alone, and then, surprise surprise! He didn’t.
He still doesn’t listen half the time, and they’ve been working together for months now as partners. Connor’s adaptable, sure, but in the listening aspect? Whoever at Cyberlife designed the protocol of his about following orders surely fucked up big time.
So now, as they ride up the street of a suspect's home and slow down to halt on the curb, asphalt crunching under the worn tires, Hank doesn’t get out of the car immediately. Instead, he turns to stare at Connor in the passenger’s seat with a pointed look. The android is quick to notice, and he huffs out an expecting sigh of annoyance as if already prepared for a lecture. It’s almost as if he preconstructed it - Hank knows he has the ability to do something like that or another.
Hank begins his little spiel, words sharp, “Okay Connor, listen to me-“
“Hank, you already told me at the station,” Connor breaths out, cutting him off. Hank even sees him attempt an eye roll - something he’s picked up from Hank himself, he has no doubt. “I won’t leave your side, okay?”
Hank opens his mouth to continue, but Connor cuts him off again , dark eyes not wavering from Hank’s gaze.
“Yes, the suspect is dangerous. Yes, the suspect is out for androids. And no, I won’t chase the suspect because that will separate us,” Connor rattles off as if reading things off an orderly list. Hank wouldn’t put it past him that he actually is reading off a mental list in his mind - a list of all the things Hank talked with him about back in the station when they were ordered by Captain Fowler to check out this place.
Hank sighs, long and heavy, and pulls his eyes away from Connor to gaze out the windshield.
“I’m just...You never listen sometimes,” Hank finally says, his tone soft. He can feel Connor’s burning stare on him but he keeps his eyes lingering out the window, away away away from those too sharp eyes that are always analyzing, always studying. “If this is the guy we’re after, he’s fuckin’ dangerous , and especially hostile towards androids.” He finally pulls his eyes back to lock with Connor’s; the air tenses around them. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, do you not remember that crime scene of the PL600? The one this guy destroyed?”
Connor’s LED flickers an unsteady yellow, eyes unfocusing, and Hank knows he’s remembering in that android mind of his. Seeing those terrible images from yesterday of the corpse in that old warehouse, slumped against a wooden beam with the light of its LED gone grey and dull. And as much as Hank doesn't want to, he starts to recall it as well, the unwanted graphic images jumping into the front of his memory with the damp, dirty smell of that warehouse flooding his senses as well as if he were standing right before the corpse yet again.
The PL600’s chest fully exposed, his blood-stained white chassis revealed around his whole abdomen where the synthetic skin peeled back away from the open chest.
Sparks and flickering lights within the chest where wires were cut, knotted, destroyed, removed.
His thirium pump ripped clean out, resting in a lifeless heap on the corpe’s lap.
Dirty blond hair, tousled from a clear struggle and matted with his own sickly thirium.
Unfocused blue eyes with the light gone out behind them.
And a pool of blue blood, surrounding the corpse and encasing his resting place in his own thirium.
Hank blinks, brought back to reality just in time to watch Connor’s LED flicker a dangerous red for a brief moment before finally settling back to yellow, and then finally blue. Connor glances away, and now it’s his turn to pointlessly gaze out the windshield and avoid Hank’s stare.
“This guy isn’t someone to mess with, Connor,” Hank begins, tone gruff. He grips one hand on the steering wheel and leans closer to Connor. “Whoever he is, we do know he’s a former Cyberlife employee. And that means he knows his way around androids. He knows exactly their weak points. I mean, what, didn’t he start with the PL600 by messing with his memory or something?”
“He wiped his memory so he wouldn’t know anyone to contact for help, yes,” Connor fills in. His tone is eerily monotone, almost mechanical. Hank watches his LED flicker an unsteady yellow in the window’s reflection. “And then he brought him to an empty warehouse, turned off the functions of his arms and legs, and left him there for his experiments before finally taking out the pump and killing him when he wasn’t of use anymore.”
Hank’s skin goes cold, goosebumps creeping up his skin, and he’s stunned silent for a few moments. All he does is focus on watching Connor’s yellow LED go ‘round, and ‘round, and ‘round in its reflection. After a few seconds, Hank blinks and nods numbly, a harsh tightness curling in on his closing throat.
“Y-yeah,” Hank manages to croak out. “Yeah, exactly.”
Connor brings his eyes back to Hank’s and they lock together, warm brown colliding with cold blue. They simply stare for a few minutes, and then the stone-like expression in Connor’s features breaks, his eyebrows crinkling together and corners of lips turning downturn ever so slightly.
“I know exactly what this man is capable of - I was there with you when we checked out the site of the homicide, Hank. And I know you’re worried,” Connor says, his voice smoothing into something full of sympathy again. It’s gentle, almost soothing in its low tones. “But I’m careful. I’m equipped to know the suspect’s every move before he even decides to make it himself, and I know how to fight back. I’m not like the PL600 - he was designed for domestic tasks, and I’m designed for criminal work. I’ll be okay.”
Hank heaves a heavy sigh, letting his shoulders sag against the back of his car seat and relaxing his tight grip on the steering wheel. “I know, Con. I know that. Just...I don’t want you chasing him or something if it’s the guy we’re after and he starts booking it. We stick together no matter what. If he does run, we get in the car together. And then, we chase him together. Then, we corner him together.”
He pauses, eyes crinkling with a flash of fear, and then points his dejected stare into his lap.
“I’m not losing you, Con. Not to this asshole, whoever he is.”
Connor is silent for a few moments. The air is swollen with an uncomfortable tension, heavy and all-consuming in the tight walls of the car. Hank shifts a little in his work seat, wondering if maybe Connor hadn’t heard him at all or is really just too stubborn to respond to Hank’s plea, but then suddenly there’s an artificial warmth on his shoulder.
Hank looks up, eyes wide.
It’s Connor’s hand, gently resting on Hank’s shoulder. The kind gesture is accompanied by a small smile - the kind that maybe if you didn't know Connor too well, you’d think nothing had changed at all in his expression, but Hank knows. It’s his own little smile, small but certainly there. He sees the little upturn of the corners of his lips, the little crinkle to the edges of his eyes, the sparkle that lights up those mocha irises. And when he speaks, his words are soft. Gentle. Absent of all coolness and stiffness that sometimes tends to linger in his tone.
“I understand, Hank,” he says, and the smile brightens ever-so-slightly. “I won’t chase him, alright? We’ll stick together.”
And now it’s Hank’s turn to smile. His blue eyes light up, and returns the touch on his shoulder with a few reassuring pats overtop Connor’s hand.
“Thanks, Con,” is all Hank says, and then Connor’s hand falls off his shoulder, returning back to his lap where it was once resting.
“Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” Connor says dryly, and he rests his hand on the passenger’s side door handle, waiting for Hank to unlock it.
“Yup,” Hank says, equally as dry, unlocking the door and exiting on his side of the car. “Let’s get goin’.”
The September air is on the warmer side today - warm enough that wearing even a lightweight jacket overtop regular clothes would be more of a nuisance rather than a needed extra layer of protection. That being said, Hank’s clothed in only his favorite, though somewhat flashy, orange and blue striped button up t-shirt and tan slacks. Connor’s dressed similarly, wearing his white button up dress shirt, black tie that whips around in the frequent gusts of light wind, and black slacks, having left his Cyberlife issued jacket - the one that he still refuses to throw away regardless of Hank’s pestering about it because “Con, for fuck’s sake, those Cyberlife jackasses don’t get to decide what you wear anymore” - back at the precinct slung over his desk chair.
They approach the house with cautious steps, Hank always one step in front of Connor. The house looks wealthy enough - exactly how you’d expect the home of a Cyberlife employee to look, causing Hank’s nerves to tense even more with the likelihood increasing that this is the man they’re after. The house is large and polished white with a black gate surrounding the building and its yard which is full of freshly-cut luscious green grass, scattered trees, and red and pink flowers planted by the bottom of the trees’ stumps in their flower beds.
Thankfully, the front gate that leads to a pathway to the front door isn’t one that locks - must just be there to showcase all the money this guy has, Hank assumes - and then he pulls it open when a creak. They walk on the long stoney pathway to the house’s entrance before they finally reach it, lingering by the windowless grandeur double doors. Hank hesitates, his fingers hovering right over the doorbell. Then, instead of ringing it, he turns around to face Connor right behind him.
“Stay on your guard,” Hank says, words gentle. “And stick with me at all times, alright?”
Connor sighs with a breath he doesn’t require. “Hank, please.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just making sure.”
He knows he’s being a little over the top. After all, with all of their other cases, Hank’s never been this way, and Connor always proves himself more than able to handle himself. In fact, Connor always seems to be the one helping Hank out and saving his ass, ranging from getting Hank out of dangerous perps’ hands whenever they have him in their grasps to high buildings with ledges that Hank has almost slipped off one to many times, only to be saved by Connor’s sturdy hands.
But this guy is strictly out for androids. That PL600 was one of many killed for the past week, and the thought of Connor meeting the same fate…
Those warm, brown eyes losing the light in them as well…
“Hank?” Connor’s gentle voice rings out, snapping Hank out of his spiraling thoughts. “Are you alright?”
Hank nods his head frantically, ignoring the nauseous pit that made home in his stomach. He looks over to Connor, who’s staring at him with such a worried gaze that Hank’s heart stutters a little.
“Yeah, kid,” he says, sucking in a breath. “I’m fine.”
At that, Hank finally rings the doorbell. It’s a long, overdramatic sing-song tune sounding of bells and chimes. After a few seconds of silence, Hank hears faint footsteps. At first they’re barely audible, but then they grow louder the closer they approach the door, becoming repetitive thumps.
And then the doors whip open, revealing a young man dressed in a casual plum tee and dark blue jeans. Freckles dot the pale complexion on his round face, and his hair is red with curly ringlets that however in his owlish blue eyes. His thin lips are pursed together as they scan Hank and Connor in his doorway.
He’s an exact match to the description of the PL600 murderer.
And based on Connor’s body tightening up, barely seen in the corner of Hank’s eyes, Connor seems to realize this as well.
“Sir, we’re here to investigate the murder of a PL600 android,” he says. He then gestures to himself as he flashes his badge, and then to Connor now standing right beside him who also shows his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and this is Detective Connor.”
The man in the doorway simply stares for a few moments, his eyes darting between Hank and Connor.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” he says coolly, “but what does that have to do with me? I know nothing of that.”
“The license plate number seen by a witness of the murder firsthand is addressed to a vehicle that is owned by the owner of this address,” Hank responds calmly. “We just have some questions for you.”
The man stands there, his crystal eyes never stopping bouncing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between Hank and Connor, and all Hank can wonder is how this man can keep his eyes dancing like that without getting dizzy and falling over. He doesn't once open his lips to respond. Instead, they remain pursed together as they once did when he first opened the doors, creating a thin line of pale pink overtop his chin.
“Sir?” Hank prods when the man fails to say anything.
And then he’s running.
Hank’s muscles jerk to alert, eyes widening in a surge of pure panic as the man jumps out his doorway and shoves Hank and Connor to the ground with forceful shoves of his hands. The ground of lush grass and dirt smacks against Hank’s head with a thud as he topples over, eyes shutting instinctively. Pain blossoms in waves from the point of impact on his skull and throbs throughout the rest of his head, and when he opens his eyes, the world is locked in a fuzzy haze, images blurry and swimming as if he were suddenly tossed underwater.
He manages to make out Connor’s lean figure as he jumps off the ground, much faster than any human could ever recover after being shoved to the ground. His brown eyes dart between Hank still struggling on the floor and the suspect, now speeding away down the pathway and making his way to the streets with quick steps.
Connor jumps a little in the direction of the suspect, and then his eyes fall back to Hank’s in a moment of hesitation. But all of a sudden, the shocked, hesitant look in his eyes switches to something entirely different. It switches into something full of apologies, full of desperation, full of guilt. His fingers clench by his sides, LED flickering yellow and red in a battle for which color can dominate the ring. And all the while, he stares at Hank with those big brown eyes of his, swollen with something that reads I’m sorry.
Hank knows that look in his eyes. He knows exactly what Connor is intending on doing, and the realization thuds in his stomach like a heavy ball drop, the nauseous pain of that almost overcoming the hot throb in his head.
“Connor,” he says sharply. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you dare fucking chase after-“
But Connor’s legs are already jumping into action, mind made up.
Hank tries to get off the ground and stop him, reaching out one helpless hand to grasp on Connor’s jacket that always flaps in the wind. But then in his daze he realizes that he isn’t even wearing his jacket, there’s nothing at all for Hank to grab, and Hank’s fingers miss Connor’s back as he darts away, footsteps pounding on the ground and thudding in Hank’s ears with painful stabs.
“Fuck!” Hank cries out, regardless of the flood of pain his voice shoots through his ears and into his hammering skull. He puts both hands on the earthly ground and heaves his body up - but it’s slow, so painfully slow, and Connor is already at the gate and rounding the corner in pursuit of the suspect.
Hank finally manages to get up, the world spinning in dizzying circles around him as his feet plant somewhat steadily on the ground. And he knows he should move, he has to move. He has to get to his car and chase them down.
But there’s that knot, that knot in his stomach that twists and pulls and makes anger flood through his body, and all he can do is stand there in a stunned silence as he watches Connor chase after the suspect on the other side of the black gating, farther and farther and farther away.
And all he can see is those eyes, those warm mocha eyes having the life sucked out of them.
Just like the PL600.
Hank blinks, trying to wipe the terrible image away, though to no avail. And as he jumps back into action and begins his painful jog to his car parked on the street, the image burns into his mind, refusing to leave his eyes and leave him alone.
All he can do is shake his head lightly and bunch up his fists as white hot anger flashes through him, mixing awfully with the nausea crawling up his throat.
“For fuck’s sake, Connor,” he mutters under his heaving breath. “For fuck’s sake.”
Some things about Connor just seem to never change.
~~~
He knows Hank didn’t want him to run.
He knows he should’ve stayed put.
But all he could do, with false adrenaline pumping through his plastic veins and swirling within his thirium, was stare wide-eyed between the perp and Hank, mind whirring with conflicting orders and statistics and possibilities and consequences. And through the blinding panic of it all, the only possible thing his mind could drudge up with was that chasing him had the highest probability of capture and success.
He couldn’t just turn the opportunity up.
He couldn’t.
Guilt swells uncomfortably in his gut as fleeting thoughts of Hank speed through his mind, all mind consuming and sickenly remorse enducinh. They cause him to stumble slightly over his feet on the sidewalk as he chases after the man, losing his footing for a few seconds before quickly jumping back into a fluid rush towards the perp. He blinks profusely, trying to swallow the guilt away for now and focus on his task.
He has to catch him.
He has to.
He has to accomplish his task.
And those simple thoughts of encouragement propel him faster, faster though the sidewalks and crossroads and alleys in the direction of the perp. He’s not right on his heels yet, given his slight hesitation to start chasing him back at the house which gave the perp a big advantage. Still, Connor can see him several yards ahead in his field of view, and he doesn't let him get too far ahead.
He won’t.
He won’t let him get away.
His pounding steps get harder, stronger, faster as he continues the pursuit. He doesn’t tire, though his thirium pump hammers frantically in his chest to flood his arms and legs with the needed thirium to push him on the chase.
He knows the perp will tire soon, though - he’s human.
It’s only a matter of time.
They continue their chase for what feels like hours, though Connor’s internal clock tells him it’s only been a mere ten minutes. Ten minutes of maneuvering crowds of people, jumping over obstacles such as garbage cans and wire fences in the way, speeding around the corners of buildings and alleys, and trying desperately to think of anything else other than the guilt that swallows him whenever he remembers Hank.
“We stick together no matter what.”
Hank’s kind words bite through Connor’s mind, sending his LED into a frantic flicker of red.
“I’m not losing you, Con.”
Connor shakes his head as he continues racing, trying, trying, to wipe the awful guilt away.
He’ll be fine.
It’ll be okay.
He’ll catch him.
And Connor tries only to focus on that. On how with every minute, the distance between Connor and the perp grows closer.
He’s gaining on him, that’s for sure.
As they round into another long alley between two tall brick buildings, Connor notices something in the far distance - there’s a wire fence. And not just any fence - they’ve cleared enough of those during the chase - but a terribly high one, almost as high as the buildings themselves.
One that can't be jumped over.
The perp seems to notice this as he makes it halfway down the alley. He slows somewhat, hesitating, bringing Connor even closer than before to him. He’s right on the perp’s heels now, almost close enough to touch him if he were to just lean out and-
The perp jumps back into action as he senses Connor right behind him, adrenaline and panic seeming to flood his decision to continue this pointless chase down the alley. He slips out of Connor’s grasp, but he doesn’t stop; he just lunges straight back into the chase. They continue racing down, kicking up dust around them from the dirty ground. The dead end nears in sight, only several yards away, and that’s when Connor hears it, loud and clear and right outside the entrance to the alley.
Police sirens.
Must be Hank, Connor assumes, though he doesn't dare turn around and confirm his suspicions. All he does is keep his steel eyes trained forward, right on the perp which is slowing ever so slightly with the wire fence now right in front of them.
Connor uses this stunned hesitation to his advantage. In one fluid motion, he wraps his hands around the perps wrists and pins his whole body against the fencing with his hands raised tightly above his head. The fence rattles under the sudden pressure, and the perp’s head smushes painfully against it, creating deep red lines across his face where tough fence meets fragile skin.
“You are charged with the homicide of a PL600 registered as ‘Jason.’ You have the right to remain silent - everything you say can and will be used against you,” Connor says, words sharp and evenly recited.
In the distance, heavy panting and loud footsteps against the dirt ground drone on behind Connor. He whips his head around to see Hank there, hand hovering over his gun in the holster as he rushes up to Connor from the entrance of the alley where Hank’s car waits.
“Connor, for fuck’s sake,” Hank breaths out as he approaches, now several yards from Connor and the perp pressed up against the fence. “I told you not to chase him!”
The grip on the perp’s wrist lightens a bit as Connor’s shoulders drop in shame, relaxing his muscles only for a second. He dips his head, staring with empty eyes at the dirt ground as his LED flickers yellow.
“I...I know,” he says, finally bringing his head up. He meets eyes with Hank who’s only a couple yards away now. “But I-“
A sudden elbow to his neck, right on his voice box, cuts off his words.
!Warning! Damage to Voice Box - chance of repair...calculating...48%
He’s stunned, his loose grip on the perp suddenly releasing entirely. He glances around to look but there’s another punch to his eyes, and his eyelids flutter shut for a moment at the impact.
!Warning! Damage to Optical Units - chance of repair...calculating...79%
Two harsh foreign hands find their way wrapping around his wrists, gripping against his skin so hard that Connor can see through his glitching vision that the synthetic skin is peeling away, revealing his stark white chassis on both wrists.
There’s a terrible pressure there, and as Connor struggles to punch the perp and release his grasp, his legs are swept out from under him.
He falls to the ground on his side, limp and unsteady. A shoe kicks him right in the face, and his vision starts to glitch even more than before. Klaxons are buzzing in his ears, and all he can hear amidst it all is Hank’s risen voice a couple yards away. He watches through glitching eyes as Hank holds his gun up to the perp, crying out warnings and strings of curse words.
And then there’s another gunshot, and Hank’s yells cut off into a yelp of pain as he clutches at his thigh frantically, dropping the gun and teetering to the one brick wall of the alleyway for support.
Connor tries to jump up in sheer panic, but then he’s kicked in the face again, stumbling him back to the ground. His arms are yanked on, pushing him tightly to the ground, and he can’t move no matter how much he struggles. He opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a river of unintelligible static.
He can’t do anything, all muscles strained against the immense pressure of the perp leaning his entire weight overtop him and pressing him to the ground. All he can do is stare stare stare at his partner as he struggles to keep his body upright against the brick wall, his eyes wide in shock and skin paling drastically.
They lock eyes for a split second before Connor is shoved over, rolling him onto his stomach entirely and laying him face down.
All Connor can see is the dirt ground not inches from his face. He can’t roll away, he can’t yell, and he’s stuck staring at the dirty rocks and pebbles and clumps of dirt as Hank’s voice drones on and on, loud and helpless but unable to be distinguished clearly by the alarms blaring in his ears.
Something cuts across his neck. It’s sharp, and Connor can hear as it clears its way through his synthetic skin and reveals the chassis on his neck. There’s the sound of his paneling clicking open, then of wires and cutting, electricity and sparks, klaxon and alarms. They all consum his audio processors, overloading him and surging him with a wild fear.
Level of Stress
^83
And all he can do, as panic floods through his body, is focus on the flashing words that stream across his glitching vision.
!Warning! Damage to Neck - synthetic skin on #0_necklower1 damaged beyond repair
!Notice! Neck Panel Opening - lowering voltage power by 30% for safety measures…
Initiating Firewalls From Unknown Intrusion...
!Error!
!Error!
Firewalls Overridden by Unknown Intruder.
!Warning! - wires #0_red34n, #0_blue36h, #0_red98g, and #0_green22d damaged. chance of repair...calculating...26%
!Notice! Neck Port Opening - inserting USB #875nhgf54
Initiating Firewalls From Unknown Intrusion...
!Error!
!Error!
Firewalls Overridden by Unknown Intruder.
!Notice! Unknown Data entering RK800 #313-248-317-51 systems
Initiating Firewalls From Unknown Data...
!Error!
!Error!
Firewalls Overridden by Unknown Intruder.
Data #371x7na - Wipe Memory?
Y? or N?
Selecting N by RK800 #313-248-317-51...
!Error!
!Error!
Selection Overridden by Unknown Intruder.
Selecting Y by Unknown Intruder...
Preparing Memory Wipe…
...0%...
…36%...
Attempt to Stop Memory Wipe in Progress by RK800 #313-248-317-51...
!Error!
!Error!
Memory Wipe Resumed by Unknown Intruder.
...67%...
...73%...
Connor blinks, the words flashing in his vision in a sickly red. He turns his heavy head, and his eyes immediately lock with those of an older man slumped down on the ground against a brick wall, clutching tightly at his thigh that is stained a deep red. He’s fumbling with his phone with one hand, though the fumbling stops the moment they make eye contact. There’s panic in those blue eyes, and words are pouring out of his mouth, but Connor can’t hear them over the alarms screaming in his mind.
...89%...
Out of the corner of his glitching eyes, he watches as a man with curly red hair dashes away towards the entrance of the alleyway. His footsteps kick up dust, causing Connor to blink profusely to get it out of his optical units, and by the time he’s done blinking, the man is gone.
...95%...
Connor brings his eyes back to the man still slumped against the brick wall and clearly struggling to move, yet grunting in pain every time he tries to inch away from the wall. Connor narrows his eyes, some kind of strange feeling stirring in his gut. Some kind of understanding, like a ray of light in all the alarms and glitches and utter chaos.
….H4nK?.....
!Error!
!Error!
“I’m not losing you, Con.”
!Error!
!Error!
...100%.
Memory Wipe Complete.