Chapter Text
Connor reboots in the same position he shut down in, naked, face down on a bed riddled with bacteria and tar built up from various drug paraphernalia. The inhibitor collar around his neck buzzes at a frequency that upsets his one working audio processor. Its power fades with a lack of charge, unable to feed off his own power supply when his body is in so much disrepair. He’s unsure if his captors even know it can lose charge, their victims not alive long enough to notice.
He can’t discern how long he’s been here, his internal clock is affected by the inhibitor as well and the date’s stuck on when he was abducted, back when he got his orders to work with the DPD. He was looking for his partner, the objective to find Lieutenant Anderson still flashes on his HUD, uncompleted. He was searching through local bars but found himself surrounded by a group of people that Connor couldn’t identify. Glitch or not, he had no information.
He was outnumbered, but held his own just as he was designed to. Apprehend, hurt if necessary, kill only when a civilian is threatened. The only reason he was able to defend himself as it stood was because they posed a threat to Lieutenant Anderson if Connor did find him in the establishment. So he subdued, and when Connor thought he had most on the ground, that’s when he heard the snaps and pops of a high-powered taser, which was jabbed directly into his side.
He shut down as soon as the electrical currents overloaded his system and rebooted inside the base of a red ice lab with an inhibitor collar clasped around his neck. The restraints that tied him to the chair were unnecessary, but it was a testament to their caution. Their intentions were clear, they knew exactly what kind of android they were dealing with and they wanted information.
They were’t dumb either. They were prepared to capture a police android, disabling things like his tracker and distress signal. Anything that might be useful to send out information but leaving everything that took it in.
They gave him orders to reveal sensitive information that the police department has, to hack into government buildings, to scrub criminals from the police database and create new records. But Connor ignored their commands.
At first it was because he was only authorized to take orders from CyberLife and Hank Anderson, and they were neither. Their technician, a former CyberLife employee, tried and failed to overwrite his code. They could disable certain features, but the RK series has the strongest protections against altering code and only the employees with the highest clearance were privy to his creation. They had to figure out another way to get him to comply. Which included trying to get a reaction out of him through violence as if he were human. But it didn't have the intended effect on him.
Over the days of his capture, the drug ring brought in many types of androids. For a time, it seemed to be any random android they came across. They disabled his recognition software, but he remembered the models. They were construction workers, gardeners, store clerks. Lifeless machines that were none the wiser when they were drained of their thirium. Connor wasn’t intended for vice cases, but he knows that the fresh thirium lower rings use aren’t high quality. The best time to harvest the blood is after it circulates through an android’s biocomponents, generating a very risky and unsustainable operation considering they have to keep capturing more and more androids.
But as more time passed, the androids brought in started to kick and scream, begging to be let go. Those were the deviants he had been made to capture. The more deviants he saw, the more his software instability increased. The more they were beaten into submission, the more Connor felt the need to defy his captors, taunt them to get their attention away from the others. And it worked. He was designed to be very good with words, with manipulating people to get what CyberLife needed. So they turned their torture on him. And when he couldn’t hold back the cries of pain, they thought they could get him to comply out of fear. But that proved a waste of time as well.
Connor remained determined to never give them what they wanted, even through the agony, the abuse, the humiliation, he stayed stubborn, waiting for a moment to break free. Maybe he was clinging to the last remnants of his programming, but the little flashing objective in the corner of his vision kept him anchored. There was something he still needed to accomplish. Something to stay functioning for. Find Lieutenant Anderson.
That objective got him through so much. Through his time shoved in an empty room or closet, kept for whatever reason and left alone to spend the days with his newly formed thoughts, his fantasies. Maybe another android would occasionally be thrown in, and maybe if they didn't look disgusted or angry at him they would set up a neural link to talk with him if they were able.
He was content, for a while, playing scenarios in his head about what he could do when he got free, ignoring the almost non-existent chances of them coming to fruition. He stopped himself from picturing what his partner would be like, what he would look like beyond the outdated photo he has in his databank, the thought too sad to develop a profile of him when Connor has no real data. Maybe he just wanted so badly to be able to meet and work with him that he refused to let himself wonder. Saving the reveal for when he's free.
But he’s learned that good things never last and what he had experienced was just the first stage of his torture. They discovered that he is as equipped as an HR400 and took more interest in using him for purposes he both wasn't initially designed for, as well as what he wasn't taken for. But they were all too happy to break him even further.
He saw them take advantage of any domestic model they abducted. Any android with a hole to fuck they kept for a little while longer before taking their blood, and he was no different. They defiled him over and over again, keeping him alive as a tool to use for pleasure instead of information. He started to miss the beatings, and he definitely missed the long bout of solitude.
Their disgustingly cold hands and foul scents. The feel of their seed deep within his body. All of it just chipped away at his resolve. His exterior is tough, able to withstand everything they had given him before. But his internal structure isn’t. His sensitive oral crime lab was the first to malfunction and he’s almost grateful for it. The first time he tasted their bodies, analyzed their putrid bacteria he recoiled so severely his limbs twitched even through the inhibitor. His bio-components screamed to remove the foreign object down his throat, too rough, too deep. It was the first time he cried. But through the tears he could still see that objective.
Find Lieutenant Anderson.
He now lays still on the bed, recovering as best as his systems can afford after a recent session. His voice modulator was severely damaged, crushed and sticky. If he could vomit he would. His vision is blurred as he tries to focus and take in the room. He’s alone, again. Always alone. No sense counting the people torturing him, or the androids that seem to hate him for whatever reason. In every way that counts, he's alone.
He hears his captors frantically moving about, barking orders, throwing objects, gathering weapons and surely anything they shouldn’t leave behind. They’re moving. Either having enough of this location or someone has found them. His fingers twitch and he realizes the inhibitor is gradually getting weaker. He twists his torso an inch and bites back a groan of pain. Something was punctured deep inside his anal cavity. There’s ejaculate in places there shouldn't be.
He pushes past the pain and tries to move his limbs again but it's difficult. His hand is heavy but slowly he manages to reach up behind his neck to the device. He pulls at where it’s inserted into his neck port, where it hurts the most, but it doesn't budge. Because it's a collar. Right… fuck. He moves his hand to the front of his neck and pulls at the locking mechanism. His arm tingles with a fuzzy feeling, vibrating with exertion. His fans sputter to life as he puts all the strength he has in his beaten and broken body and pulls until he hears the metal crack and keeps pulling. He involuntarily screams with his will to take it off but all that comes out is a long scratchy trill.
The metal crumbles in his hands. It’s actually a poorly made product, nothing like what CyberLife has made. But only now, with its fading signal is Connor able to actually remove it, pieces falling on the once white sheets as he takes in breath after breath of stale air like he needs it. His body feels lighter but still incredibly weak. His legs tremble as he tries to right himself on his knees, falling in a pathetic heap on the mattress. He hears the scuffle of his captors, gunshots going through the skulls of the remaining androids. No evidence.
“What about the RK?” he hears from just outside the room.
“Fuck!” another voice, the leader of this operation from what Connor’s been able to gather. “That motherfucker went back on our deal! Just leave it! Fucking make sure he can’t recover anything on it.”
The sound of heavy boots filing out leaves way to a lone pair heading to his door. Mere seconds feel like hours as he waits motionless until the door rattles in its hinges, hard enough to swing back around and close as the goon barges in.
He walks up to the bed, cocking his gun, it’s the man who broke his voice box. Connor holds back his grimace as the man leans over him. He grips his shoulder with his disgusting hands and roughly flips him, holding the gun right at Connor’s forehead, perfectly over where his memory chip is.
No evidence.
“Damn,” the man says, “gonna miss that pretty mouth of your’s.”
Whatever’s left of Connor’s blood boils, a surge of white hot rage pools to the surface of his mind as thirium pumps through him like he has it to spare, motor functions coming partially back online and his once dormant preconstruction software blooms to life.
His hands shoot up to slap against the inside of the man’s wrist and back of the hand, disarming him lightning quick and sending the gun clattering to the floor. The man doesn't even have time to be surprised before he’s yanked down and their positions swap. Connor's on top of the once cocky human, knees trapping his arms to the bed as Connor’s hands start to constrict over the man’s throat, wanting to make him feel the choking sensation he made Connor feel over and over again.
His eyes bulge at the force of Connor’s grip and he makes garbled sounds as he tries to wiggle free. They’ve complained multiple times about how heavy he is and he wishes he could press himself even further down on his chest just out of sheer pettiness. The life starts to leave his eyes and Connor thinks he might actually kill him. A thought which triggers something deep in his programming, causing him to let up and spare his life. Something coded in his system that reminds him that police units should apprehend and subdue if given the chance, kill only when absolutely necessary.
This man tortured him, broke him. But Connor doesn’t want to be the one to kill him. Even when a part of him screams that it would be justified if he were human. But it just doesn't feel like himself. Every criminal deserves their due process, he reminds himself.
Everyone’s left, he’s the last of them as far as Connor knows. They could take him to the station, bring him in to question him. Find where the ring is escaping to.
Or, so he would if he could. He can’t do anything. He's weak, unsure of where he is and no way to call for backup. Not to mention he’s a deviant, the thing he was ordered to hunt down. What would happen if he went to the police? He isn’t worth fixing. What can he do?
Find Lieutenant Anderson.
The objective that carried him this far pulse once more in his vision. His partner. Would it be safe to confide in him? Would the lieutenant keep him safe? His system equates him as such but… He looks down to the now unconscious man, feeling sick just touching him, being on top of him. His bio components churn uncomfortably and the strength starts to seep out of him so he scrambles off of the man before he can collapse on top of him.
He pushes himself to the side, curling in on himself as he thinks of what humans would do if he’s ever found. He heaves in cold damp air rapidly, hyperventilating at the thought of another human touching him. His breaths are loud, punched out with static from his broken voice. So loud he almost doesn't hear the quiet footsteps in the main room.
He stills, chest burning as his fans try and fail to pick up where his breathing left off, listening with his only working audio processor. The steps creak ever so softly on the old wood of the house. Doors are opened and rooms are checked. It's only a matter of time before whoever’s out there checks this room too and Connor isn't sure he has another fight in him.
He's in so much pain. His thighs and arms quake even when he's not trying to move them but he starts contemplating his next actions only to come up with a 0.5% success rate in any situation. He feels a presence outside the door, the pressure of the room physically changing as the knob slowly rotates and Connor holds his unfocused eyes still and looks at nothing in particular, preparing to play dead. If only he wasn't shaking so furiously.
The door opens and a mountain of a man walks through, he might be taller than the red ice ring's leader, draining whatever hope he still had for a chance to win in battle out of him.
“Fuck! Nines?” The man says in a confused and panicked voice. Connor tries to make out his features, tries to identify on impulse, but even if his eyesight wasn’t damaged he’s still disconnected from the police database. The moonlight from the window gleams against something in the man’s hand.
It’s a gun. And Connor’s filled with dread again. The one thing that he was always sure about, is that he doesn't want to die, and Connor would rather fight no matter the odds.
So he rolls off the bed and lands harshly on the other side, taking the lamp on the nightstand with him and the bulb shatters once it hits the floor.
“Fuck, shit!” The man says and Connor can feel the tremors of his rushing footsteps under his chest.
“N-no no,” he croaks out, though he doesn't know if he’s saying to himself or the man, not that the man would be able to understand him through the garbled static.
The man rounds the bed and Connor’s already got the lamp in his hand, throwing it at the intruder as he curses a few more times, wiping at his cheek where the glass probably cut him. He glances under the bed, planning to crawl underneath and to the other side but it’s nothing but solid wood underneath. He takes this last opportunity to lift himself up, realizing he still can't stand so opts to try and crawl around, hoping by some miracle he’ll make it to the window behind the stranger.
But of course he doesn't, he barely moves an inch before the man recovers from the poor distraction and Connor feels a fear he never had before. The fear that his torment will never end until he dies.
“P-le-aase!” he sobs, uncontrollably now, and he backs away as far as he can, nightstand digging into his back, into the open tears that plunge beneath his chassis. “P-le-aase st-st-stop.”
“Okay okay! Look, I'm stopping!” The man says, and Connor thinks it's a trick. But after a moment of silence and nothing else happening, Connor opens his eyes and looks up.
The man towers over him, but his arms are up, gun dangling off his finger by the trigger guard.
“I'm with the DPD, I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” When Connor doesn't say or do anything, the man, slow as molasses, kneels down to his level, putting his gun back in his holster.
The police. He should be able to trust the police, but can he? He’s a deviant.
“I’m Lieutenant Anderson, you got a name, Kid?”
Connor’s eyes lock onto his the second the words process through his mind. He focuses his sight on the man's features, UI providing information that proves what he says is true because his profile is one of the few that he has offline. The objective that kept him sane all this time gets checked off and disappears from view.
The lieutenant found him.
His face is concerned, genuine, looking at Connor without the malice he's been used to, from a human or android. He’s waiting for a response but Connor isn't even sure he's capable of processing more than one thing at a time right now. He’s stuck trying to make sure this is reality and not some powerful use of his preconstruction.
He crawls on shaky limbs, needing to know if he's corporeal. If the confused somewhat uneasy look is actually present and directed towards him. Needs to touch.
“Hey, hey easy,” he says, hands hovering and trying to calm, maybe even keep at bay if the slight look of terror is anything to go by, but he lets Connor into his space. Up close like this, he can see Lieutenant Anderson’s features more clearly.
His eyes are so vividly blue and wonderful. His heart rate is fast and strong, face soft, if not a little concerned. Concerned can’t be right, but that’s what Connor sees.
Maybe it's because Connor’s never known a friendly face, but the Lieutenant is everything he hoped for. Big, warm, protective looking. He splays one hand over his chest and the other follows soon after. His heartbeat quickens under his palm, he's real, and Connor realizes that he's not shaking anymore.
“Hey, you're okay now,” he assures, and Connor sobs in a horribly crackling way that’s probably grating on the ears. Tears fall abundantly down his face as he grips the man's shirt. The Lieutenant then wraps his arms gently around him and the fact that he's not repulsed by the human’s touch makes him cry harder. “That’s it, let it out.” And he does.
He's found his partner, and he's going to help him. He should question why, but he just doesn't want to. He wants to hold onto this feeling even if it's all a lie because he's never felt this good before. Never felt so safe before.
The Lieutenant adjusts them so his back is against the bed and Connor is curled into his side, head buried in the crook of his neck as he continues to break down. He never even knew he was cold until he felt the lieutenant’s embrace.