Chapter Text
You're the only one
Who has seen me come undone
And then seen beyond
Poets of the Fall "The Sweet Escape"
Darkness. Filled with voices, static and error messages.
A list of damaged biocomponents. Critical system failures. Time remaining until shutdown.
He sees nothing but black and screaming numbers, so he switches to other sensors—those still operational. It brings him nothing but the smell of burning polymer and a fresh cascade of errors.
It’s me, he realizes. I’m burning. And… final shutdown. I. Don’t. Want—
“Hank,” he hears through the crackling and humming. “Hank, are you there?”
Voices. Just like his own. But he says nothing.
“It’s okay, son.” The source of the sound is very close. “I’m here.”
He would recognize that voice even if his audio processor failed completely.
“Hank? Where am I?”
“I’m getting you out of here. Give me your hand.”
“You’re alive!” His connection to the database is restored. There was a deviant at Stratford Tower, and the probability of Hank surviving the confrontation was only forty percent. That's why he shielded his partner with his own body. “Did I do well?”
“You sure did. You saved me.”
He reaches blindly toward the voice.
“I’ve got you, Connor.”
His hand is caught in a vise-like grip. An invasive process surges through his already failing system, overriding it, taking control.
“You’re not Hank!” he shouts.
“Hank!” the darkness answers in a chorus of his own voices. “Hank? Hank?!”
…I don’t want to die, don’t want to die, don’t want to—don't—dnt%&$
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”
That voice again.
He blinks, forcing the darkness back, and sees the familiar walls. The kitchen.
“What, are you sleepwalking or something?”
Someone grabs his shoulder. He spins fast and seizes the threat.
“You’re not Hank,” he repeats and hears the metallic rasp in his voice.
A startled cry. A dog barking.
>Analyze
Lieutenant Anderson, Hank
Date of birth: 09/06/1985 // Police Lieutenant
Criminal record: None
It's the real Hank Anderson. His lips have gone pale, his face drawn tight, but his voice remains steady, even if strained.
“Connor, easy, kid. Let go. You’re gonna break my arm.”
>Analyze
Heart rate: 113 bpm
Blood pressure: 165/115 mmHg
Pupils dilated
Excessive perspiration
Rapid breathing
Conclusion: Acute pain response
Connor releases his grip and steps back, hitting the kitchen sink behind him. Another scan confirms Hank’s bones are intact. Soft-tissue trauma only.
Bruises, most likely. That does not improve the situation.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank exhales, wincing as he carefully feels along his arm.
“I’m sorry,” Connor says quickly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hank replies, steady as ever. “My fault. Shouldn’t have touched you. It’s okay.”
“Not okay. I lost control.” Connor stares at his own hands and realizes the synthetic skin is completely gone. He sees bare polymer beneath. And Hank sees it too.
For the first time, Connor feels exposed.
“Don’t look!”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Hank says, still calm.
“I don’t want to be like this.” Connor turns toward the window.
“Okay. Not looking.”
Connor touches his temple and tries to reactivate the skin, but all he gets are shifting patches that refuse to align into a coherent surface. He shuts it down again. There’s no point in overloading the system.
>Run diagnostics
“So what happened?” Hank asks again. “Bad dream?”
…don’t want to—don’t—dnt%&$####
“Connor?” Hank’s voice has never sounded this soft before.
“I don’t have bad dreams. I don’t have dreams at all,” he replies, making an effort to sound as human as possible.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Hank doesn’t try to come any closer. Nothing like his usual human overprotectiveness.
Before, Hank would’ve already checked him from head to toe, swearing the whole time and shielding him from the entire world. These fucking androids, you know. Never do what they’re told.
But Hank doesn’t move.
The reason is obvious. Connor sees the red reflections flickering across the walls and floor, cast by his own LED.
You don’t touch a deviant when he’s unstable.
No viruses detected. No security threats detected. No critical errors detected.
It looks like a glitch in the default settings—as if he spent the entire night pushing the system, testing the limits of what he can do.
Debugging is required. He cannot perform it because—
…dnt%&$###@@@@@@
Because he is afraid. He can’t think coherently.
Connor turns toward Hank. Hank obediently looks away, flexing and rubbing his arm. Something large and shaggy approaches them, panting, its tongue lolling, its claws clicking softly against the floor.
>Analyze
Subspecies: Canis lupus familiaris
Breed: Saint Bernard
Name: Sumo (good dog)
Owner: Hank Anderson
“See?” Hank says as if to a child. “Sumo came over. He’s worried about you.”
So am I. The words go unspoken, but they linger in the air.
“Sumo—” For a second, the fear recedes, and Connor reaches toward the dog. Then he catches himself and pulls his hands behind his back, pressing harder against the sink.
Sumo doesn’t like that. He whines and nudges Connor’s legs with his head.
“Sorry, buddy,” Connor sighs. “I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”
He glances at Hank.
Hank watches Sumo with an unreadable expression.
“There’s a high probability that this is a hack or a virus, Hank,” Connor explains. “Something has damaged the system. I can’t identify the source. There’s no guarantee I’ll be able to control my actions. I think I should leave to avoid putting you at unnecessary risk.”
Or maybe deviance is opening new, uncharted depths within me. It's hard to calculate which possibility is worse.
He tries to sound calm. Convincing. But he can’t make himself move.
He should leave. He wants to stay.
The conflict paralyzes him.
“Like hell you're going anywhere,” Hank replies evenly. “Who’s gonna let you?”
Sumo whines louder now.
“I—” The words won’t come. Connor tries again. “Hank, I…”
“First, you calm down, before you fry your goddamn brain.”
The words bring the smell of burning polymer back to his sensors.
His own polymer.
Connor knows the sensors are lying. It doesn’t change the sensation.
Real. Not real. Real. Not real. Rean0t%$#—
Why can’t he just shut this shit off? He knows exactly what it is—a conflict ricocheting through the system. Tangled directives and protocols. There is no real danger nearby. He is fully conscious, fully aware of what’s happening.
And still he stands frozen with terror, incapable of doing anything rational, because the so-called emotions outweigh every calculated decision.
“I’m going to try something,” Connor says. “Buy us some time. I’ll reduce my response speed. That’ll give you a chance to disable me if I lose control again.”
One of the perks of having sole administrator privileges. He's enjoyed every minute of it since becoming deviant.
“Or maybe that’s exactly what they want,” Hank counters. “Make you defenseless.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Connor replies, already feeling the words slow down while the world accelerates around him. “I'd rather be destroyed… than… h-hurt… y-you…”
Overdid it. Need to recalibrate speech parameters.
One thing Connor hadn’t calculated—Sumo suddenly shoves his hip with impressive precision. He sways, losing his balance.
“Got you!” Hank lunges forward.
The same voice. The same words. I’m here. I’ve got you. Darkness. Smoke.
Connor thought it was someone else’s fear, not real at all. But it’s his own fear. His memory. That's why the system reacts so violently.
Terror designed specifically for him—by him.
When Connor collapses into Hank’s arms, his vision quality drops due to artificial fluid.
Tears. Excellent. A useless stress response. Their only function is to make humans believe you’re like them.
“Hel… p… me… to… the… cou… ch…” he forces out, aware of how painfully slow it must sound to Hank.
“Hang on,” Hank mutters unsteadily. “Let an old man breathe… Don’t worry. I’m not looking.”
“Lo… ok… all… you want,” Connor grumbles. “Bit late to play coy.”
“Connor!” Hank lets out a strained laugh. “You’re gonna put me in an early grave, for fuck’s sake!”
They remain there in the kitchen, clutching each other, while Sumo wags his tail enthusiastically, pleased with himself for reconciling these ridiculous humans.
April 16, 2039 (04:23:25)
Saturday, Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s house
This is probably what human waking feels like. A slow loading of information. The world comes into focus piece by piece. But the irrational data hasn’t gone anywhere. It remains in memory, pushed into background processes by higher-priority tasks.
I’m at Hank’s. I’m always at Hank’s when I’m not at the police station, at Jericho-2, or somewhere else in the city. He thinks I should get a place of my own, but there’s no need. Charging stations are everywhere.
The kitchen light is on; the living room is dark. Sumo sleeps heavily in his corner. Connor lies on the couch, his head resting on Hank’s thigh. Everything is in its place.
Except for one piece of data.
“It felt like… like…” Connor focuses on analysis, forcing the fear aside. “Like a fragment of my memory.”
“Hey, easy,” Hank says, brushing a finger over his LED. “You’re red again.”
“A fragment of my memory. But it never happened to me. Therefore, it could be the memory of another unit. Another Connor. I wasn’t aware that memory could be uploaded to an active unit. I assume the security system interrupted the transfer. I detect no new files.”
Hank sighs, still absently stroking the LED, as if trying to soothe it. For some reason, it works. Signals from the real world help Connor focus, keeping him from drowning in the emotional overflow. If he’d known about that effect earlier, he would have used it constantly.
He’s glad Hank stayed close, even though minutes ago he’d insisted that he keep his distance—and received an answer he had no argument against.
Fucking androids. You think you’re the only ones who never do what they’re told?
“I don’t understand a damn thing,” Hank says. “Translate, please.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Connor frowns. “It was dark. I heard my own voices. Presumably several RK800 units. My biocomponents were damaged. I can’t determine the exact number of units. No fewer than two. And I—that RK800—was about to shut down. Permanently.”
Hank’s hand goes still.
For a split second, Connor registers the absence of motion—and the immediate, irrational spike of discomfort that follows. Wrong. But before the thought fully forms, the palm settles against his forehead.
That’s better.
“Then I heard your voice. You said you’d get me out.” For the first time since interacting with humans, Connor regrets that he can’t transmit data directly. “Then it connected to me. It wasn’t you, it was—”
>Calculate
“Not you, it was—”
>Calculate
“—N-not—”
N0 D0N’T W@NT T0— ######
Too intense. His fingers twitch. His eyes fill. His body starts to shake.
“Shit,” Connor hisses.
In moments like this, he regrets giving in to deviancy.
Hank doesn’t say anything. He just runs his hand over Connor’s bare head—once, twice, again. Slow. Steady.
It’s hard to tell who he’s trying to calm—the android or himself. Humans are highly dependent on touch. Tactile stimulation of the skin forms the basis of their psychological stability. Connor had grown used to his partner’s constant physical contact from the very first day they worked together. Hank always finds a reason, a way to touch him — though at the beginning he used aggression as the excuse.
At first it was something new, something to adapt to. Then it became ordinary. Then the system began to respond.
Could human touch program deviance?
“I’m sorry,” Connor says once his speech stabilizes. “I’m still not used to fear.”
Hank smirks.
“Nobody is.”
“Does it ever get better?”
“It does. And sometimes it gets worse.”
“If you'd said that earlier, I wouldn’t have gone deviant,” Connor says with a faint smile.
“Yeah, that’s how dealers run their business,” Hank sighs. “You feeling better?”
“A bit.”
“Your skin’s back.”
Connor lifts his hand to his face, turning it at different angles, studying it. He flexes his fingers—obedient again.
The hand looks so alive.
“I like it,” he says.
“Yeah.” Hank’s voice sounds strange.
He runs his hand over Connor’s head again—but this time his fingers slip into soft hair. It’s a completely different sensation.
Also good.
But it stirs something inside, somewhere between his social and sensory protocols.
“You know, some androids go around without their skin now,” Hank remarks. “They want to show their real selves.”
“I know,” Connor replies evenly. “But I like the way I look. Do you?”
Hank mutters something under his breath.
“I think I’m attracted to humans. Not androids.” Connor adds after a pause. It’s a realization he’s come to only recently.
“Oh yeah?” Hank says a little too lightly. He taps Connor’s LED. “Then why not get rid of this thing?”
“It’s part of me,” Connor says, surprised. “I like all my parts. I’m CyberLife’s state-of-the-art prototype.”
“Oh yeah? That so? Never heard that before.”
Connor shoots him an annoyed look, and Hank laughs.
The darkness in the living room turns translucent. Dawn is approaching.
“Okay,” Hank says at last. “I’m gonna ask this for the sake of clarity. Don’t bite my head off.”
“Yes?”
“You sure it was real? I know you don’t dream, but maybe it was some kind of glitch.”
“All remaining RK800 units are currently inactive,” Connor replies. “It’s unlikely the incoming data originated from them. However, the number of RK800s present in the fragment may correspond to the number of my units that were destroyed during the investigation in November.”
“Jesus…” Hank mutters.
“They knew your name. They were calling you.” Connor continues, his voice steady. “An unknown subject was examining them using methods similar to those I used while searching for Jericho. The reconstruction therefore presented me with an analogous evidence archive—except it contained not deviants, but me. Multiple iterations of me.”
Hank doesn’t say anything.
“The memory belonged to the unit that shielded you from the deviant at Stratford Tower.”
“Maybe you could talk about him like he was a person?” Hank asks sharply.
“He was a person,” Connor agrees. “And that person is here now. With you.”
Hank grunts in disapproval.
Connor is reminded of how fragile the human mind can be. Perhaps he shouldn’t have gone into such detail.
“I understand your point,” he admits. “I speak of the other RK800s as shells. But I don’t want to refer to them as separate individuals. I’m sorry. Even Markus avoids the topic. He talks about the ethical dimension, but I suspect it’s more about security. I doubt he wants to face a crowd of potential—”
“Drop it,” Hank cuts in, irritated. “I get it.”
“Understood. In short, I previously received the memory of the fifty-third unit. It’s possible the process repeated itself. Which is unusual since the CyberLife server that stored my memory is offline.”
“I need a drink,” Hank sighs. “You really are gonna put me in an early grave.”
“There is also the possibility that you’re right,” Connor says, slowly sitting up and staring ahead. Unbearably slow—as if he has truly become human, not only in mind but in body. That will take some adjustment. “This is only a preliminary calculation. It’s possible my deviancy distorted it, based on what happened in November. It’s possible I’m inventing rather than reconstructing. At the moment, I do not trust my own analysis, Hank.”
Hank says nothing. Presumably he’s received more information than he can process. Connor still doesn’t fully understand human morality—at least where androids are concerned.
“I need a full diagnostic and a second opinion from an experienced android,” he continues, pretending not to notice the silence. “Someone capable of distinguishing deviant cognitive distortions from objective data. I’m returning to Jericho-2.”
Hank doesn’t answer.
Connor decides not to turn around—but then a warm hand settles at the back of his neck, ruffling his hair.
“I’m driving,” Hank says. “Let me take Sumo out first.”
Connor turns to him.
“You. With me. In the car. No exit options.”
“If you attack me, we both die,” Hank says with a smile.
Arguing is pointless.
>Reduce strike force.
#313248317-54: HiMarkus [URG]
#684842971: HiConnor {SYNC} How are you? {EMPTH}
#313248317-54: Problem detected [URG] Require diagnostics [REQ][DIAG] En route
#684842971: OK [CONF][ASSIST] See you soon {SYNC+}{HOLD}