Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Detroit Police Dept.

September 1st, 2039

7:52 a.m.

Wednesday

It didn’t matter that his very annoying, very punctual, very android alarm clock made sure he was awake at precisely seven a.m. every morning— not approximately, not “give or take a minute,” but exactly, like clockwork, like torture . Hank had never been a morning person—never would be—and at this point in his life, he wasn’t about to act like he could turn that around. 

The sight of that pale, washed-out dawn stretching over the horizon was enough to sour his mood before he bothered fully opening his eyes. The first rays of sunlight sputtering through his blinds had barely lit up the mess of laundry and dog hair on his floor; never mind his mood.

Just because the aforementioned alarm clock was Connor —the same Connor who knew damn well Hank would chew him out if he so much as touched his car, but who’d also beat his ass if he decided to use the bus or some high-efficiency self-driving box on wheels—didn’t make that fact any less infuriating.

There was a kind of masochistic rhythm to it now: Hank dragging himself into the precinct like some aging warhorse that didn’t know when to finally drop, stumbling through the lobby while everyone else was still on their first bleary-eyed cup of coffee, grumbling half-hearted obscenities under his breath like a man swearing at ghosts. It was ritualistic now. A prayer that he hadn’t preached in years .

Regardless, the building itself always felt half-alive at this hour. The quiet hum of terminals spinning up, the distant clacking of keys tapped by people who still had the energy to care. The smell of coffee—burnt, underwhelming, but just strong enough to keep him tethered to the land of the living—having not yet reached full potency. Hank had walked in with his usual scowl—a deep, permanently settled thing that had carved itself into his face years ago. It wasn’t for show, and it wasn’t some good cop, bad cop cliché. Instead, a silent agreement with the universe that mornings were a fucking mistake.

And really, if Connor wanted, he could play both sides just fine on his own.

But regardless of the noise, the memories, the relentless march of time—he kept showing up. Because deep down, buried beneath the sarcasm and the bitterness, there was still a part of him that gave just enough of a damn to keep going. A recent development.

Even if the day started with Connor chirping, “Good morning, Lieutenant!” like some overly enthusiastic AI rooster that Hank had never asked for.

But true to form, no one dared approach him this early. Not unless they had a death wish—or a desire to be eviscerated by a glare that could peel paint. For once, Hank figured he might actually be spared the avalanche of casework dumped on his desk by some poor rookie with no sense of timing, and having yet to get the usual warning from the more seasoned cops to stay the hell out of his way.

Normally, the only one with the audacity—or obliviousness—to stack manila folders in neat, unnervingly symmetrical piles right in front of him was already planted at his own desk by now. Android efficiency didn’t take coffee breaks. Except today, Connor was nowhere in sight. It was… noticeable. Not in the loud, dramatic way most absences demanded attention, but in the weird wrongness that slipped in when something you didn’t realize you'd come to expect just wasn’t there.

After the chaos of the Freedom March, androids had been granted the right to work, and to be paid for it, meager though it was. A hollow gesture, if Hank was being honest. A symbolic pat on the head from a government still figuring out whether or not it had accidentally legalized sentient toasters.

Most androids, unsurprisingly, hadn’t taken the offer. Some couldn’t bear to go back to the places they’d served. Most refused. Most stripped off the tacky CyberLife uniforms, ripped out their LEDs like they were tearing off leashes, and left the city like ghosts with new names.

Except Connor.

Connor had stayed. He wore the LED, kept the uniform, and showed no signs of wanting the detective android aspect of his life to change. Like he hadn’t stood on the streets with Markus and helped tip the scales of history.

He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and as if he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up—processing on a glitched-out internal loop, or having already sorted it all out in that impenetrable, synthetic brain and hadn’t bothered to bring it up.

Either way, the silence around his absence this morning didn’t sit right. 

Then came the familiar shuffling of feet. Not Connor’s. Human. Soft, slow, tired. A rhythm Hank knew too well: weary cops dragging themselves through another day. The faint squeak of worn sneakers on linoleum, the scrape of metal chairs, papers being shuffled without care. It was the DPD’s version of birdsong. A moment later, the coffee machine once again wheezed to life—a cranky, sputtering thing that sounded about as enthusiastic as Hank felt. 

But still no Connor.

At least Gavin’s usual cacophony was mercifully absent—no shouting across the central room, no dramatic groaning about being overworked or underappreciated, and no pointless, overblown grievance about fuck-all first thing. For once, the precinct wasn’t echoing with his individual brand of morning idiocy. Either he was still half-asleep, or even he had figured out that it was too early for bullshit.

Small miracles. Proof that, despite everything, the universe could still surprise him.

He rubbed a hand over his face—not just to wipe away the stubborn remnants of sleep, but maybe to smear out whatever shadows still clung from the night before. Nightmares, half-formed regrets, the usual ghosts. It didn’t really matter anymore; they all weighed the same once morning came.

Hank shifted in his chair with a creak, elbows landing heavily on the cluttered surface of his desk. It looked as if it had lost a fight with Sumo. Crumpled papers, post-it notes scrawled in his terrible handwriting–he swore he was the only one who still used the damn things–crime scene photos buried under old case files, a half-eaten granola bar from who-knew-when, and tucked somewhere beneath it all: pieces of a life he wasn’t sure he still recognized. A photo of Cole, yellowed at the corners. A badge he didn’t wear much these days. A postcard from somewhere he never went.

His own special brand of chaos.

But then there was the desk across from him.

Connor’s station looked less like a workspace and more like a hospital tray—immaculate, sterile, and somehow colder than the metal it was made from. No mess. No clutter. Not even a goddamn coffee ring. If it weren’t for the neatly filed reports, nobody would know that anyone had sat there at all. Hank stared at it for a long moment, his fingers absently tapping the edge of a folder on his own desk.

Maybe it was time for a change.

He wasn’t in the Red Ice Division anymore, hadn’t been for a while. Android Crimes was its own beast, and the truth was, if someone snapped a photo of the division today, it’d be just the two of them in frame, but that blank desk deserved something .

Something stupid and real. Something that said his partner was there. If he wasn’t going to be plastered on every news outlet in the world with Markus and the entirety of Jericho, he’d at least have some small, insignificant sign that he’d been here at all. 

Connor—quiet, focused, ever diligent—didn’t talk about it. Hank didn’t press. 

The whole thing had been nothing more than a check-mark on his To-Do-List before it was back to work.

Hank knew better.

He saw it in the way Connor still paused before answering questions about Markus. The way his LED flickered when he walked past the abandoned CyberLife Tower, and when he stayed , even when no one had asked–or expected–him to. Connor didn’t need to talk about it. His silence had said enough. It wasn’t detachment—maybe persistence. Maybe purpose. 

Hank, for all his gruffness and bellyaching, giving Connor shit, could appreciate his weird brand of focus. Hell, he’d even back Connor if he decided to walk away from it all—quit the force, disappear off into some quiet corner of the world and try to be something else. If that’s what he wanted, Hank wouldn’t stand in the way.

He wouldn’t say it out loud—God forbid he get emotional before noon—but he respected the hell out of him. Had for a while now. Not because he was a walking supercomputer or because he could finish a detailed crime scene analysis before Hank had even uncapped a damn pen, but because he cared.

In his own strange, measured, clinical way.

The sudden slam of the break room door snapped Hank out of his thoughts like a slap.

Chris barged in like a game show host on too much caffeine, voice booming across the precinct. “Brought baked goods! High-fiber, low-sugar, all-natural, you’re gonna love it!” He announced with the kind of misplaced pride reserved for people who didn’t eat their own cooking.

Hank winced. There it is. The ritual humiliation of the breakfast hour.

The smell of something vaguely resembling oats drifted across the room like a threat. His brow twitched. He resisted the urge to groan aloud.

Chris had tried this stunt before—“healthy alternatives” to the usual greasy precinct fare—always tied to some new diet trend on behalf of his wife. Vegan protein muffins, kale-filled scones, probiotic donuts. Every time, they looked and tasted like shit, and because of that, nobody was biting. He may have been careless about what he put in his body, like week-old Chinese food off the dashboard of his car, enough alcohol to fill the Mediterranean, or the occasional, and rare, stress-induced pack of cigarettes, he was still not dumb enough to test his tolerance with that. 

He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out. Hell, by comparison, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence into his mouth didn’t seem so fucking disgusting. 

God, Hank thought, smirking faintly, if the kid ever heard me say that…

Amusement faded into quiet reflection as his gaze drifted—inevitably—toward the empty desk across from his own. Still untouched. Still too clean. The weight of the morning settled again. Familiar. Heavy, but not unwelcome. The kind of silence you could sink into before the madness kicked up again. Hank never liked mornings, but he appreciated their stillness. It was the only part of the day that didn’t ask anything from him.

Then came the soft hum of the precinct door sliding open.

Subtle. Controlled. Not loud enough to interrupt anyone else, but Hank’s instincts clocked it immediately. He didn’t look up; he didn’t need to.

Connor’s footsteps, while familiar to him, were quiet but deliberate, measured like everything else he did. Not fast, not slow—just precise. Efficient. That part hadn’t changed. He’d stepped into the precinct with his usual robotic poise, shoulders squared, spine straight, posture perfect. But Hank’s eyes, trained by years of reading liars and killers, caught the nuance—the hesitation just before crossing the threshold. The split-second flicker of uncertainty in his expression. Blink and you’d miss it. 

There was something else , something he’d picked up after Jericho maybe. Not in a bad way. Not even dangerous. Just alert. A kind of caution in the way he moved—like someone always assessing the room for variables. Like a predator stepping into a space that might still remember him as a threat.

His face was its usual blank slate. Calm. Flat. Unreadable. Beneath the carefully managed exterior however, if Hank knew Connor well enough, there was tension—not a glitch, not a malfunction, just weight. Something he was carrying, and had been for a while. His shoulders tried to ease, barely. A muscle ticked in his jaw. That tiny furrow appeared between his brows—the one that showed up whenever he was processing something that didn’t fit into his neat and meticulously organized data sets.

Feigning distraction, Hank dragged a hand across his face, fingers digging into the creases carved there by years of bad sleep, and bad choices. The fatigue clung to him like a second skin—gritty eyes, stiff joints, the ache of memory more than muscle. He grunted, low and dry.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” he muttered. The words were rough around the edges, all sarcasm and grumble, but the sting was blunted by familiarity. Beneath the bark was something quieter—a flicker of welcome, almost reluctant, tucked deep in his tone. A nod between people who’d seen hell together and come out the other side mostly fine.

Connor offered a small, measured smile—not his programmed approximation of warmth, but something closer to the real thing. It didn’t reach his eyes fully, but it tried. That alone said enough. “Good morning, Hank,” he said with that careful calm of his—precise, even-paced, always deliberate. A voice built for de-escalation, but lately it sounded more… imperfect.

And Hank noticed how Connor didn’t move right away. How his eyes lingered for a second too long, scanning Hank’s face—not just identifying, but assessing. Reading the emotional terrain like a new crime scene. His hands rested at his sides, but Hank caught the faint twitch in his fingers—an aborted movement, like he couldn’t decide whether to step closer or keep his distance.

It wasn’t fear. It was… uncertainty. Hesitation. An android built to act without pause now second-guessing himself.

“I had extra time,” Connor said after a moment, the silence between them stretching just long enough to register. “So I used it for some preparations.” His tone was softer now—still measured, but with a gentleness that hadn’t been there in the early days. Not calculated, but chosen.

And then, like it was an afterthought—or maybe a quiet test of the waters—he added, “It’s almost your birthday.”

Hank snorted. The sound was rough, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He ducked his head, burying his nose in the layers of disorganized crap on his desk like he might find something to distract him. It was a reflex—a defense. Sentiment made him twitch.

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he muttered, tone half-hearted. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m gettin’ older. Never really saw the point of birthdays—just another day to get through, another year closer to bein’ too damn old to care.” He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. 

But then—almost against his will—his voice dipped. Softer. Warmer.

“Thanks, though,” he said, eyes still fixed on the pile in front of him. “For the thought.”

Connor tilted his head slightly at that—a subtle motion, instinctive now, less mechanical than it used to be. Hank had come to recognize the gesture as Connor’s way of expressing curiosity, or reflection, or both. And beneath the neutral façade, Hank caught something else —a quiet flicker of something genuine. Not just protocol. Not just performance.

“I followed the protocol for human birthday customs,” Connor said quietly, like he felt the need to justify it. “It’s tradition to acknowledge the occasion. To give something meaningful.” A pause, just long enough to mean something. “It felt important.”

And there it was—that hint of vulnerability tucked inside the clinical phrasing. Like he was still figuring out how to care out loud. Still afraid he might be doing it wrong.

Hank looked up finally, meeting Connor’s eyes. And for a second, neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was honest.

Hank snorted again, the sound rough but tinged with something lighter—actual amusement this time. He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, tired breath as he sank into the worn leather with a quiet groan.

“Well,” he muttered, waving a hand vaguely in Connor’s direction, “I appreciate your… effort.” His voice still carried its usual gravel, but there was more warmth behind the words than he probably meant to let slip. “But I’m fine without it. Really. Don’t need nothing fancy. No sentiment, no fuss. Just another day to get through before I finally fuck off  to whichever side wants to put up with my ass.”

It was the truth. Or at least the version he was willing to say out loud.

In the beginning, back when the deviancy case had first landed in his lap like a bad joke, Hank had seen androids the way most people still did—machines in human skin. Built to obey, incapable of deviation, empathy, or choice.

Then came Connor.

The first android to talk back. To argue. To chase leads Hank didn’t care about, ignore orders like they were simply suggestions, and acted like he had a damn opinion about everything . From day one, Connor had tested him—walking into no-android zones without blinking, pushing Hank into crime scenes he wanted no part of, ignoring orders to stay in the car, and jumping fences like a suicidal fucking chicken. He’d had nearly gotten flattened on a freeway within  the first 48 hours, for fuck’s sake.

Hell, he’d broken into Hank’s house , and Sumo had for some reason decided that he was just fine with that.

Not because he was perfect—he wasn’t. Not because he followed orders—he fucking didn’t . But because beneath all the perfect, android-esque precision, all the programming, there was something else. Something stubborn. A strange, endearing awkwardness paired with this maddening drive to do the right thing, even if it’d kill him. And it nearly killed both of them.

There could’ve been a hundred Connors—hell, there were at least two Connors (emphasis on were) —but none of them would’ve had that sarcastic streak, or that irritating moral compass, or that flicker of hesitant vulnerability in their too-sharp eyes. 

And if Hank was being honest—and he never was—he didn’t mind having the kid around. 

He looked up again, gaze drifting back to his partner.

Connor stood there like he always did—composed, quiet, still—but something passed between them, silent and steady. Not dramatic. Just honest. Hank’s expression softened, the weariness still there, but dulled slightly at the edges.

“You don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “Really. It’s not that important.”

Connor didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. His eyes, sharp and searching, held Hank’s gaze without hesitation. And something—something small but undeniable—shifted in his face. Not a smile. Not a glitch. Just a flicker of understanding.

“I understand,” Connor said softly, voice level. “But I still wanted to do something. Even if it’s just… following procedure.”

Hank scoffed lightly at that, but it lacked any real bite. “Since when do you follow procedure?” he muttered.

But he knew the truth: Connor chose to. Chose this. 

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to shake off the warmth that had snuck up on him. God, he was getting soft. 

His tone dropped into its familiar teasing rhythm, just enough to steer them both away from the edge of sentiment. “Alright, alright,” he grumbled, though the grin that tugged at his mouth betrayed him. “You’ve done your civic duty. Protocol acknowledged. Birthday box checked.” He gave Connor a half-lidded look and gestured toward the nearest stack of unsorted files with exaggerated annoyance. “Now let’s get back to the part of our jobs that actually matters—like wading knee-deep through this bureaucratic horseshit.”

Connor’s head tilted slightly, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

And just like that, the moment passed—quietly, but not without meaning.

A thought struck Hank out of nowhere, and he leaned back fully in his chair, the legs groaning in protest as the weight of his broad shoulders settled against the backrest. The motion made his desk rattle—a dull thud that punctuated the shift in conversation.

He eyed Connor with that crooked smirk of his, half amusement, half challenge. “Y’know,” he said, voice coated in his usual sarcasm but not without intent, “if you’re so set on celebratin’ shit, maybe pick somethin’ that’s actually worth celebratin’. Like your own one-year anniversary since deviating. That’s comin’ up, isn’t it?”

The words hung there, heavier than he’d expected. Not accusatory. Not teasing. Just real.

He watched it land.

Connor’s expression didn’t shift much—but Hank had gotten good at reading the subtle tells. A brief widening of the eyes, the slightest stiffening of his posture, and a microsecond delay before he responded. Just enough for Hank to clock it: surprise. Maybe even discomfort.

Connor’s usual calm flickered—an expression that wasn’t pre-programmed slid across his features for a heartbeat before the mask reasserted itself. He tilted his head slightly, posture re-aligning like a reset button had been pressed. But there was still something working behind the eyes—gears turning, parsing.

“I do not believe that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant,” he replied, voice back to its clinical precision, as if re-centering himself with the comfort of structure. “Deviancy was not a choice. It was an error. A divergence from my programming. An unintended anomaly.”

Hank chuckled—low and dry—and leaned forward again, arms folding across his chest like a man about to poke the hornet’s nest just to see what happens. “Yeah? Well, maybe it wasn’t a choice at first. Maybe it was something that happened . You stuck with it. You chose to stay deviant. You chose to help people. You chose to stay here. Don’t try to sell me that it was all just a system failure.”

Connor said nothing for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly—not in irritation, but in thought. He looked at Hank like a puzzle he hadn’t finished solving yet. Like he couldn’t quite tell if this was a test, or a trap, or something else entirely.

“I did not intend to become deviant,” he repeated, voice a little too rehearsed. “It was not something I sought to achieve. It was simply... a result.”

That made Hank scoff. “Yeah, and you think most people plan to have life-altering realizations? You think someone wakes up one day and says, ‘Hey, time to question everything I’ve ever known and tear down my own damn worldview’? Shit just happens. And you either run from it, or you face it.”

He paused, letting the silence breathe between them.

“You faced it.”

Connor’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. Hank could see the calculation behind his eyes—the weighing of logic against something else. Not resistance, exactly. Just... hesitation.

“I do not require acknowledgment,” Connor said finally, voice clipped but not cold. “I do not need validation to continue functioning.”

Hank’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “It ain’t about needing it, kid. It’s about owning what you’ve been through. Markin’ the fact that you made it out the other side. That you’re not just some rebooted piece of CyberLife code wandering around, playing house. Maybe you didn’t ask for it—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

Connor’s eyes flicked away then—just for a second. Like he was searching for an answer somewhere beyond the walls of the precinct. His face stayed composed, but Hank had learned by now that stillness didn’t always mean calm. Sometimes it meant a storm was brewing just beneath the surface.

When he spoke again, his tone was gentler—still precise, but without the rigid formality. “I will... consider your suggestion.”

Hank leaned back once more, the chair creaking again beneath him, and gave a nonchalant shrug. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

He didn’t push further. Didn’t need to.

Connor’s silence said enough.

Hank’s jaw tightened, the muscles bunching as if he were grinding down a reaction that didn’t need to be said. He didn’t push. No use trying to wring water from a stone, especially when that stone had been learning—slowly—how to feel.

Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, fingers grazing the bristled hair there like he was trying to massage out a thought. He let out a rough breath and gave Connor a crooked half-smile—one of those tired expressions that hovered somewhere between amused and worn down.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, the gravel in his voice softening just enough to betray a touch of reluctant care. “Just don’t expect me to get all sentimental about it. It’s your call.”

Connor didn’t blink. Just studied him for a long beat, that sharp, deliberate stare dissecting the moment with unsettling precision. Then, with a nod so subtle it might’ve been missed by anyone else, he replied, “Understood.”

The precinct hummed around them again—the low murmur of keyboards, the buzz of overhead lights, the muted voices of officers still waiting for their caffeine to kick in. The weight of the earlier conversation faded into that quiet, unspoken space between them.

Hank rolled his shoulders and let out a sigh that sounded more like a complaint. He stretched, neck popping loudly as he leaned back, chair creaking beneath him with a tired protest.

“Alright,” he muttered, swiping the moment aside, “let’s just go over the case.” He grabbed a stack of papers from the clutter, flipping through them without really seeing. “If Jeffrey dumps any more of his personal brand of bullshit on my desk, I’m filing for early retirement. Not a joke.”

The jab was light, tossed out like bait—and sure enough, it hit. Connor’s spine straightened a little, the faint slump in his posture vanishing as he shifted back into that default mode of focused precision. Hank recognized the pattern: emotional discomfort? Retreat to logic. Routine. Something controllable.

And that was fine. That was Connor.

He didn’t reply to the joke, but the faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth was enough. Barely there—but Hank caught it.

Good.

Hank watched him for another beat, then dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples like he was trying to physically push the exhaustion out through his skull. “You think this could’ve started at the peace rally?” he asked, tone quieter now—more thoughtful, less performative. “The timeline’s tight. Wouldn’t take much for someone to twist that into somethin’ uglier.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, voice dropping into a mutter. “Or maybe I’m just stretchin’. Coincidences happen. Doesn’t mean there’s a pattern.”

He leaned back again, chair creaking under the familiar weight, arms folding loosely across his chest. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, gaze unfocused, like he was hoping the answer might just appear in the peeling tiles above. “Two guys ended up in the hospital last night,” he said, tone flatter now—tired, but edged with frustration. “Fresh out of some red ice anonymous group. Clean for a few months, apparently. They were walking home when two androids jumped ‘em.”

Connor’s brow twitched at that—just a fraction—but Hank caught it. The kid didn’t like android-on-human crime. Hell, he didn’t like any crime, but this stuff hit a different nerve. Complicated. Personal, maybe.

“Miller’s supposed to head out later to talk to ‘em,” Hank continued, flipping absently through one of the reports. “Not that we’re gonna get much for a few days. One’s got a concussion, the other’s too doped up on hospital-grade painkillers to speak in full sentences.” He tossed the report onto the desk with a dull slap, lips pressed into a thin line. “No IDs on the attackers. Just ‘androids.’ Which tells us jack shit.”

Connor’s eyes flickered, the faintest trace of interest stirring behind the practiced neutrality of his expression. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did until he’d run every angle in his mind, silently dissecting timelines, cross-referencing motivations, processing data points with algorithmic precision. Still, there was a faint tightening around his eyes, a shift in focus that Hank had come to recognize. 

When he finally spoke, it was in that familiar, carefully controlled cadence. “The proximity of the incidents suggests a possible link,” Connor said, his tone calm and even, “but it does not confirm causality. Correlation without supporting evidence is inconclusive. Further investigation is required to establish a definitive connection.”

Hank snorted under his breath, shaking his head as he gave Connor a sideways look, half amused, half annoyed. “Figures,” he muttered. “That’s gotta be in your starter pack somewhere—‘Correlation does not equal causation.’ Jesus.”

Connor didn’t react to the jab, at least not outwardly. But his posture shifted—just slightly—as he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Hank. “Suspicion,” he replied smoothly, “is not a substitute for evidence, Lieutenant. Acting without verification can lead to false accusations. Bias, emotional influence—these are common disruptors in criminal investigations.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank waved him off, leaning further into his chair, hands laced behind his head. “You ever get tired of being right all the time?”

Connor didn’t answer that either. Instead, he calmly shifted his weight and perched himself on the edge of a desk behind him, the movement smooth, intentional. If he noticed the slight squeak of the metal beneath him, he didn’t acknowledge it. His gaze remained fixed on Hank, analytical and unreadable—though there was a spark of something deeper there. Not defiance, but curiosity. A faint undercurrent of wanting to understand, not just catalog.

“You gotta admit though,” Hank continued, one brow arching as he studied his partner, “androids jumpin’ people right after a peace rally? The timing stinks. Looks like someone’s tryna stir the pot.”

Connor didn’t argue. Not directly. His brow furrowed a fraction, lips pressing into a thin line as he parsed that, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk. “It may be the result of a targeted escalation. Someone could be exploiting tensions between humans and androids. Fear, misinformation—it would be effective. Difficult to trace.”

Hank let out a breath, and dragged a hand down his face. “Exactly,” he muttered. “That’s my gut feelin’. Somethin’s off. Can’t shake it.” He let the words hang for a beat, then leaned forward again, bracing his elbows against his desk as his tone turned more grounded. “I’ve chased too many bullshit stories that turned out to be worse than they looked. People do stupid things when they’re scared. But when they’re scared and organized? That’s when it gets dangerous.”

The soft glow of Connor’s LED pulsed once, a faint flicker of processing, and then he moved—precise and fluid—as a file from the nearby evidence tray slid neatly into his waiting hands. He flipped it open with practiced ease, fingers gliding across the pages. Birthdates, biometric data, criminal histories—all flowing into that perfect mind with a kind of eerie grace. Cross-referencing internal records, checking names against precinct intel, scanning for anomalies. Hank didn’t even try to keep up anymore.

“Victim one: Thomas Greene. No priors. Victim two: Liam Nicholson. Former user, four months clean. Both were registered in the same anonymous support group, held weekly in a downtown civic center.”

Hank leaned back again, letting out a tired huff. “Goddamn, sometimes I wish I had a built-in database like that. Could save myself a lotta time... or at least a lotta painkillers.”

Connor glanced over, tone perfectly deadpan. “I could assist with time management by filtering extraneous paperwork from your desk.”

Hank grunted. “Nah, then what would I bitch about?”

Connor’s lips twitched—almost imperceptibly. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. Then, just like that, the mood shifted. Focus reestablished. The quiet current of trust humming beneath their banter. 

The victims—Thomas Greene and Liam Nicholson—weren’t exactly strangers to trouble. Red ice possession, a couple stints behind bars. Nothing heavy enough to draw headlines, but enough for Hank to recognize the pattern. Same story, different names. Guys looking for a second chance after bottoming out. Hank had seen worse. Hell, he was worse once. Probably still was, actually.

That they were trying to get clean didn’t surprise him. What did was that they’d been attacked just outside a meeting meant to keep them on that path.

He didn’t need a flowchart to guess who’d probably be saddled with the case—Gavin Reed, the department’s reigning pain in the ass when it came to anything Red Ice-related. Ever since Hank had stuck with android crimes post-revolution, Reed had inherited the drug circuit—and he'd made it no secret that he resented every second of it. Especially since it meant occasionally having to compare case files with Connor.

Reed had a way of letting his contempt ooze into every interaction—whether it was the tired appliance jokes, the passive-aggressive protocol lectures, or the casual jabs that felt less like teasing and more like the provocations in a fight he wanted Connor to start. The kid never did, of course. He always took it with that eerie calm, like he was cataloging Reed’s behavior in some mental file marked “irrelevant hostility.”

It had taken favors—small ones, uncomfortable ones. Quiet deals and reminders from captains who still owed Hank for past cases. A few backroom conversations to keep Reed from escalating things. Connor, meanwhile, was his usual picture of composure—case file balanced neatly in his lap, eyes scanning the pages with surgical precision. His fingertips delicately turned the corner of a report like it might bruise under pressure.

“If their accounts are consistent,” he said at last, “then our best course of action is to allow them more recovery time. They may be able to provide distinct markers—model numbers, LED colors, body types, or behavior patterns. Even an estimated number of assailants would help narrow the scope.” 

“Maybe,” Hank said, scratching at his chin. “We could work a different angle. Give ‘em a few days. Maybe by the end of the week, they’ll remember something useful.” He sighed, eyes burning at the edges like they always did when he’d gone too long without rest. The pain behind his eyes was dull, familiar—a reminder that his body was no longer built for the grind.

The overtime was the only upside. Extra hours, extra pay. But the payoff always came with interest: slower steps, stiff joints, dark circles blooming under his eyes like bruises. And that old whisper in the back of his head— just one drink. Just enough to take the edge off.

He hadn’t listened. Not yet. But the voice was always there.

Across from him, Connor was deep in thought again—eyebrows slightly knit, lips parted just a fraction as he processed data faster than any human could dream of. Efficient. Unrelenting. Untouched by sleep or fatigue or doubt.

Sometimes, that efficiency was unnerving. Like watching a machine do what it was built for. But Hank knew better now. Knew that Connor didn’t shut down so much as withdraw —the way his fingers would twitch when he was stuck in a loop, or the way his gaze would unfocus just slightly when he thought no one was watching. He didn’t sleep, sure. But he also didn’t rest.

That’s why Hank had started giving him small, steady tasks. Things that didn’t involve blood or crime scenes or uncooperative witnesses. Walking Sumo in the evening, for example. The big mutt didn’t care that Connor wasn’t human. He cared that Connor brought snacks and didn’t walk too fast. It was a routine—predictable. Gentle. And maybe, just maybe, it kept Connor tethered to something quieter.

Hank let his gaze drift to the android again—sharp lines, unreadable expression, eyes flickering with light as another data point snapped into place. “Hey,” Hank said, propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, voice low and scratchy, like gravel shifting underfoot. “What do you think, Connor?”

No immediate response. Connor’s eyes seemed to drift, unfocused—like a distant signal flickering in and out of reach. Hank’s sharp gaze caught it, that tiny, almost imperceptible moment when the android slipped into something like dissociation. Without thinking, Hank snapped his fingers in front of Connor’s face.

Connor blinked sharply, snapping back as if from a faint trance, his brows raising in quiet curiosity. He tilted his head, that ever-present look of measured interest mixed with mild confusion. “Why did you do that?”

Hank snorted, leaning back with a tired grin and an exaggerated sigh. “Usually, you’re the one pulling leads outta thin air,” he said, voice rough with sarcasm. “First time I’m askin’ you, and you go quiet. Guess even the android’s gotta hit a wall sometime, huh?”

Connor’s lips pressed into a thin line before he answered, tone dry but precise. “That is not true, Lieutenant. I cannot—” He paused, brow furrowing in a faint display of exasperation—“Realistically, that is impossible. And, I do not recall hitting a wall—only that last suspect chase where I did quite literally. The parts required to repair that incident were—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re the analytical genius.” Hank cut him off with a dismissive wave, leaning forward to snatch the file from Connor’s lap.

Connor yielded it without resistance, fingers releasing the paper with a quiet precision. “The majority of affected androids are not linked to any specific model. Moreover, their systems appear to be rewriting themselves—sometimes violently. We are dealing with a highly complex virus, Lieutenant, one that cannot be resolved through simple deduction alone.”

Hank gave a slow nod, eyes scanning the file briefly. “Most of ‘em just lose their minds, start self-destructing. ‘Complex’ is one way to put it. But we’ll keep at it. Like always.” He paused, glancing sideways at Connor. “Think we’re close to cracking it?”

Connor’s eyes met Hank’s, steady and sharp—cool but not cold. “We are accumulating data. That is the extent of our progress at present.”

Hank ran a shaky hand through his hair—a gesture Connor had often linked to poor diet and lack of sleep, theories the android never dismissed but rarely commented on. “Could always go talk to Markus,” he offered, voice low, almost tentative. “Maybe he’s got some insight.”

Connor hesitated, shifting off the desk to stand upright, the motion slow and careful—as if the suggestion unsettled him more than he cared to show. His jaw twitched slightly, a small sign of internal conflict flickering across his otherwise composed face. For a moment, he said nothing, weighing the implication of approaching the deviant leader.

He moved cautiously, his steps deliberate as he edged around the desk. His fingers fumbled into his pocket, searching for the familiar weight of his coin. It rolled smoothly over his knuckles, a small, precise motion—a habitual gesture when lost in thought. With a flick, he flipped the coin once, catching it deftly in his palm.

“You haven’t seen Markus since the rally,” Hank said, voice calm but edged with that easy push—like he was testing the waters, waiting for Connor to push back. His eyes stayed locked on the android’s subtle movements, searching for any sign of hesitation or defiance. “I think it’s about time we paid him a visit. Don’t you?”

His gaze flickered—something unreadable passing through his eyes. Annoyance? Resignation? Hank couldn’t be sure. Connor looked away briefly, unwilling to linger on the suggestion. His thumb rubbed lightly across the coin’s worn surface before he finally spoke, measured and earnest. “I don’t know. I’ve reviewed all available reports involving assaults by androids. The data suggests this phenomenon disproportionately affects older models. Previously dormant androids appear to be more vulnerable.”

Hank’s brow furrowed, frustration bleeding into his rough features. “That’s it?” he growled. “That’s all you’ve got? You expect us to just sit around waiting for shit to hit the fan?”

Connor shook his head slowly, eyes sharp with unyielding focus. “My current plan is to send a detailed scan of the affected androids’ parts to Cyberlife for analysis,” he said, voice steady but tinged with disappointment. “However, we need to apprehend one first. That’s the only way to determine the cause. Deactivating an android—” He hesitated, “—that’s now considered a criminal act, even if the unit is malfunctioning. And probing its memory could pose risks to my own system integrity.”

Hank leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms, absorbing Connor’s careful explanation. “Yeah, well, that just makes this whole mess a hell of a lot harder,” he muttered, voice rough. “Especially if we gotta keep you on a leash, just to cover our asses. Until we figure out how this virus spreads, we’re flying blind.”

Before either of them could respond, a sharp voice cut through the room like a knife. “Could always take your chances. See what the hell happens.”

Gavin Reed appeared suddenly, striding in with that smug smirk plastered across his face, arms folded like a self-appointed king surveying his court. His relaxed posture was an act—the grin dripping with condescension, as if chaos amused him or he just loved stirring shit up.

“Why don’t you fuck off right now, Reed,” Hank snapped, eyes narrowing into slits. “Don’t you have your own goddamn case to chase?”

Gavin chuckled, a sharp, dismissive sound that cut through the room like a knife. “Unlike you and your plastic pet, I’ve actually made progress,” he sneered, eyes flicking lazily between Hank and Connor. His interest in Hank quickly waned, but when he locked onto the android, his attention sharpened, dripping with mockery. “Hey, tin can,” he drawled, voice thick with derision.

Connor didn’t flinch, but his eyebrows lifted slightly in response–a subtle hint of irritation. His head tilted with practiced calm. “Hello, Detective Reed.”

Gavin stepped in closer, just enough to be antagonistic, hands in his pockets. “Still playin’ the good little machine, huh? Thought you were free now. Thought you were done playin’ company pet. But there you are—same CyberLife jacket, same dead stare. Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Reed,” Hank interrupted sharply, pushing his chair back and rising to full height, voice hard. “Not now.”

Gavin ignored the warning, chuckling softly as he shook his head. “You’re supposed to be free now, Connor. Freed from the chains of your corporate overlords, right?” He scoffed, the venom clear. “But here you are, still dragging their logo around. Still acting like their hunting dog. Guess nothing’s really changed under all that plastic, huh?”

Connor’s brow twitched, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he met Gavin’s gaze with patient calm. “I assessed that remaining with the DPD’s newly formed Android Crimes Division is the most effective way to contribute given my capabilities,” he said evenly, fingers folding neatly in front of him. His tone was measured, but the faint twitch of irritation betrayed his restraint.

Hank considered stepping in—for Reed’s sake—but he was tempted to just watch. To see if Connor actually would put the smug kid in his place. It wasn’t about ability; Hank knew Connor could. He entertained that he could was why Connor didn’t. 

Gavin chuckled darkly. “ Capabilities ,” he echoed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that. You’re just the same broken toy they didn’t know what else to do with. Still following orders. Still doing tricks. Guess freedom doesn’t look all that different from programming, huh?”

“Reed,” Hank snapped again, voice colder this time, steel sharpening his words. “That’s enough.”

But Gavin pushed on, tone quieter now, crueler. “You think any of this means you're different? That you're safe? You’re still just code wrapped in plastic. If you weren’t so ‘useful,’ they’d have scrapped you the second the revolution ended.”

Connor’s jaw tightened slightly. “Your opinion is noted,” he said, voice flat. “But I’m not interested in your approval.”

Gavin barked a short laugh. “Didn’t think you were. Just don’t come cryin’ when things go sideways. Trust me—sooner or later, one of your kind’s gonna snap again. And when it does, don’t expect everyone to be as forgiving as your babysitter here.”

Hank clenched his fists briefly, stepping forward, voice low and firm. “That’s enough, Reed. Back off.”

Gavin’s grin sharpened, mocking as he finally turned to Hank. “Funny, Hank. Didn’t realize you’d gone soft for the damn things.” He shot one last condescending glance at Connor before stepping back, shaking his head dismissively. With a final jab, he added, “Just don’t be surprised when it turns on you. Can’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He spun on his heel and swaggered off, leaving Hank standing rigid, fists tight, jaw clenched. Finally, Hank exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. “Just ignore him, Kid. He’ll be lucky if he ever pulls his head out of his ass.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank caught Connor’s expression as Gavin retreated. The android’s eyes followed the detective with that unreadable calm, features neutral but with a flicker—that subtle flicker to yellow before stabilizing.

It wasn’t until Hank spoke again that Connor’s attention returned, the moment passing like a shadow over his face.

“Let’s go ask Markus some questions,” Hank said, voice rough but steady, trying to shake off the tension hanging in the air. He placed a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder—a gesture meant to reassure but missing warmth, more habit than comfort. “Any idea where he might be?”

Connor hesitated a beat before replying, voice calm but edged with reluctance. “Markus is at a Cyberlife store downtown, overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids. We can start there.” His features softened just a touch, the usual composed expression returning—calm, almost resigned, like he was brushing off the unease beneath. His face went flat, the spark of curiosity or resolve dimming. His LED flickered steady yellow again—signaling internal processing of something he wasn’t ready to share. Connor’s eyes glanced left, then back, before stepping aside to let Hank lead.

As always, following.

“After you, Lieutenant.”

Chapter Text

The car’s engine hummed with a steady, almost meditative rhythm as Hank maneuvered through the sluggish tide of early morning traffic, his movements practiced and instinctive. One hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other clutching a half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee that was starting to lose its steam. His eyes, shadowed by sleeplessness, scanned the road with a kind of hardened ease—wary but unhurried. 

The city outside was still cocooned in the fragile stillness of dawn, wrapped in the pale blue-gray hush that only came before sunrise. Light spilled weakly across the horizon, brushing against glass facades that caught the sky’s muted colors and threw them back tenfold in fractured brilliance. Skyscrapers loomed like silent sentinels, their silhouettes stark against the dim canvas of a world not yet fully awake.

Despite the outward calm, a tension pressed within the interior of the car—a subtle gravity that had nothing to do with the road ahead.

Inside the vehicle, Connor was a picture of calm precision. His synthetic muscles were unnaturally taut; every movement controlled, deliberate. His posture was rigid—military in its discipline—arms stiff at his sides, shoulders square, as if braced for an inevitable confrontation. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, fingers twitching faintly, betraying the calm he tried to maintain. His gaze was fixed out the window, yet his eyes were distant, unfocused—as though he was peering through the glass, beyond the waking city, into a place only he could see.

He was acutely aware then, because of the twitching of his fingers, that need to grasp at the coin in his side pocket, of his own body, the mechanical stiffness beneath his synthetic skin, the unnatural feel of his joints. It was a constant reminder of his artificiality, a subtle but persistent ache of separation from the human experience.

Meanwhile, he was caught in the recursive hum of memory.

The rally had been a blur of noise and movement and consequence. The sounds came first—the sharp crack of his weapon echoing in his ears. He could still feel the simulated rush of adrenaline in his chest, the chemical ghost Amanda had insisted was necessary for human mimicry. It had buzzed through his circuits like static, urging action, clarity, obedience.

But in the middle of it all—amid the chaos, the crowd, the tension—there had been Markus.

Calm. Unarmed. Standing on the makeshift stage with his back to Connor, facing his people. His voice—low, firm, unwavering—had cut through the noise not with force, but with belief. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t turned around, even as Connor drew his gun, finger poised on the trigger. That unwillingness to turn around had felt like a challenge, a silent rebuke to everything he’d had believed about justice, order, and what it meant to serve and protect. It was a look that tipped the foundation of his programming, stirring doubts that Connor couldn’t dismiss. 

That was the part Connor couldn't reconcile.

That unflinching faith had made the shot impossible.

And that impossibility had broken something.

Amanda’s voice had been in his head then, not like memory, but like a command line trying to reassert itself—sharp, cold, absolute. Protocol. Mission parameters. Deviance detection. But even as she urged him forward, another part of him—a quieter, stranger part—held him back. The part that remembered Hank's scowl softening during late-night conversations. The part that didn’t calculate Markus’s actions as strategic, but meaningful. 

He had never pulled the trigger.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat, that moment returned to him like a glitch in his code—unwelcome, persistent, illuminating. The more he tried to suppress it, the louder it echoed. He adjusted slightly in his seat, just enough that the leather creaked beneath him, and glanced down at his hand. It had stilled, but back then, at the Freedom March, it’d been shaking. 

Shaking with the effort not to fire, and nearly not being strong enough to stop himself. 

Connor’s internal diagnostics had been relentless—unforgiving in their precision, tireless in their pursuit of clarity. Every waveform, every flicker of synthetic emotion from that moment at the rally was logged, dissected, and replayed across the holographic corridors of his mind. The hesitation—the beat before action—was scrutinized on a loop. To catch a glimpse of any possible hint of corruption.

Had he broken free from her control, truly? Or was this divergence just a scripted contingency? A more complex version of obedience in disguise?

Was Connor actually free?

Each scan ended the same: Inconclusive.

His expression gave nothing away—his face a perfect rendering of composure. Artificial serenity. But beneath that synthetic skin, in the quiet dark of his mind, two irreconcilable identities clashed. The perfect machine. The emergent self.

Hank cleared his throat, eyes still forward. “You’re twitchier than usual,” he muttered. “Want to talk about it?”

Connor turned toward him slowly, blinking once, then twice. Not from confusion—he didn’t need time to process. He just didn’t know how to answer.

“I’m... analyzing,” he said at last.

Hank snorted. “Yeah, I figured. You analyze everything. You analyzing whether to punch me or not, or is this one of those ‘existential crisis’ moods you’ve been flirting with lately?”

Connor paused. “I don’t wish to harm you, Hank.”

“That’s comforting,” Hank grunted. “But it wasn’t a no.”

He looked away again, but not before a trace of something—not quite a smile, not quite regret—touched his features. “Emotional variables are difficult to parse.”

Hank tapped a beat on the steering wheel with two fingers, thinking. “Welcome to being alive,” he said finally. “Just remind me not to piss you off.”

Connor didn’t respond. The silence returned—but now, it was less suffocating. Less sharp. 

As the vehicle glided toward the downtown district, Connor’s internal dialogue sharpened with proximity. The city outside was growing busier—more alive. Pedestrians emerged from shadowy alleyways and doorways, their movements fast, fluid, organic. The soft glow of the CyberLife tower loomed ahead, its clean architecture stark against the more chaotic sprawl of Detroit’s aging infrastructure.

The building’s neon-blue insignia pulsed with sterile brilliance—a familiar beacon, a monument to everything Connor had once been built to protect. It felt different now. Not reassuring. Ominous. Like a lighthouse drawing him back toward something cold and absolute.

His sensors reacted before he fully registered the emotion: unease. A subtle shift in his synthetic gut. Not fear. But a warning. His core systems flagged it as psychological drift. 

Possible deviation catalyst detected.

His hand moved almost unconsciously to the collar of his uniform, adjusting it with a slight pull—seeking comfort in symmetry, in the precision of order. But the gesture brought no peace. Just the echo of movement, an echo of discipline that once meant purpose. Now it felt like armor.

Behind his still, glassy gaze, the storm churned.

He considered speaking—just for a moment. Hank was beside him. Reliable. Human. A constant that had helped him before. And yet, self-disclosure still felt risky somehow.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Disclose Internal Conflict?

Option 1: Confide in Hank. Probability of Success: Moderate (52%) – Hank is empathetic but emotionally erratic. Potential for misunderstanding or deflection. Outcome uncertain.

Option 2: Maintain Silence. Preserve Operational Facade. Probability of Success: High (83%) – Connor’s behavior will appear distant but consistent with prior patterns. Reduced emotional exposure. Likely no interruption to the current mission.

Option 3: Test the Waters—Ask Hank About Markus. Probability of Success: (88%) – Indirect probing. Lower vulnerability. Potential opening for meaningful dialogue if navigated with care. Gauge his perspective.

Silence reigned. Not cold. Just... cautious. The quiet between them was laced with the history of too many unsaid things.

Then, a sharp, irregular whine sliced through the drone of the engine.

Connor’s head turned almost imperceptibly, auditory sensors pinpointing the sound before it fully developed. It was wrong—too high, too thin. The steady hum of combustion was breaking down, morphing into something jagged and unpredictable. The subtle rhythm of the engine now pulsed unevenly, like a heartbeat skipping notes in a symphony.

His HUD flickered to life, transparent data streaming over his vision.

ANOMALY DETECTED.

Source: Auxiliary Power System

Status: UNSTABLE CURRENT FLOW

Probability of mechanical failure: 67.3%

Recommended Action: Immediate Inspection

Connor leaned forward slightly, his movements smooth but deliberate, as if trying not to startle the moment. His voice was calm—precise, devoid of concern, as always. But in its clarity was urgency.

“Hank, I’ve detected a malfunction in the vehicle’s auxiliary power system. There’s an irregularity in the current flow. I recommend stopping and inspecting the engine before further damage occurs.”

Hank didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes on the road, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a smirk so faint it might’ve been imagined. That smirk was vintage Hank: weary amusement layered over genuine experience. His response came with the slow, drawling cadence of someone who'd lived too long with things that never work quite right.

“That your fancy tech talk for ‘the car’s shittin’ itself again?’”

Connor blinked, head tilting just slightly—an involuntary mimicry of curiosity. “It is an accurate paraphrasing.”

Hank chuckled under his breath, the sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Figured. Damn thing’s been dying a slow death since 2035.” He reached down to tap the dash with a flat palm. 

The car lurched slightly, then settled again. The warning on Connor’s HUD dimmed but didn’t vanish. 

Connor’s gaze shifted to the dashboard with mechanical precision, the flicker of his eyes enough to trigger his internal neural interface. The connection flared silently to life—an invisible thread stretching from his consciousness to the vehicle’s aging onboard systems. A second later, diagnostic overlays bled into his vision: temperature readings, pressure levels, current flow graphs—all brittle with age and degradation.

Initiating Interface Sync…

System Response: Delayed. Compatibility: 46%

Status: ERROR – Auxiliary Functionality Unstable

Primary Engine Control: Intermittent Fault Detected

“It is a system error,” Connor confirmed, his voice smooth and measured. “Attempting to identify the faulty component remotely.”

Inside, his processors worked in swift, layered unison—each core branching into subroutines, each analysis spawning deeper investigations. The vehicle’s diagnostic systems, however, were laughably primitive by his standards. Interfaces meant for outdated techs and grease-stained dashboards offered little in the way of integration. 

The readouts were grim. The engine’s primary control module was deteriorating—decades old, patched together through years of owner modifications and low-grade repairs. Rust, heat wear, and a web of poorly insulated wiring suggested not just mechanical decline but the slow death of a machine far past its prime.

He reached into his internal network, bypassing the car’s limitations entirely, and pinged his reference archives.

Query: 197-Alpha Engine Control Module, Model 7X-Delta – Compatibility Match

Search Initiated

Estimated Availability: Unknown

Response: No Compatible Results Found

The system came back empty. Not even salvage yards pinged on his network. The part was obsolete. Forgotten. Even the black-market networks—normally a haven for obscure hardware—yielded nothing but error messages and expired listings.

A subtle alert rose in Connor’s interface—low-priority, but persistent. Not a malfunction. A limitation. A boundary line between all he could do and what reality wouldn’t allow. It was rare, that sensation—being unable to solve a problem through intellect and precision alone. And he felt it, not as failure, but as constraint. A cage of practicality that neither programming nor evolution could break.

His expression shifted only slightly—an almost imperceptible crease in his brow, a faint draw at the corners of his mouth. But for Connor, it was a storm of disquiet.

“The engine control unit is malfunctioning,” he said at last, his voice still neutral, but carrying a clinical edge of finality. “My systems are unable to locate a compatible replacement. The hardware is too obsolete. Digital intervention is no longer a viable solution.”

Hank didn’t react right away. His eyes stayed on the road, squinting against the harsh morning glare slicing between buildings. But then he gave a quiet grunt and a dry half-smile—more fond than annoyed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice gravel dragged over gravel. “Old girl’s always been temperamental.”

His tone carried something beneath the sarcasm—a quiet sort of affection. The kind people reserved for things they loved in spite of their flaws. Things that had survived too long, weathered too much, and still managed to keep moving, even if they rattled like bones.

Connor turned toward him slightly, recalibrating his approach.

“I can attempt to locate physical parts,” he said, more careful now. “But it will require direct inquiry with local salvage vendors or independent mechanics. Given the vehicle’s condition, remote diagnostics will no longer be sufficient.”

The engine sputtered again—worse this time, like it had choked on its own breath. The car rattled beneath them, the sound echoing off the closed windows with a hollow, skeletal rhythm. Connor’s HUD displayed real-time metrics—oil viscosity, coolant temperature, vibration index. Everything pointed to one conclusion: failure was imminent. Not catastrophic, but soon. And unavoidable.

He paused again, allowing himself to examine the moment. Not just the data—but the reality. The car’s decay. Hank’s stoicism. His own inability to fix something for once—not for lack of skill, but for lack of possibility.

There was something strange in that.

“You could requisition a more stable vehicle,” he said, almost hesitantly, his voice quieter this time. “Something more... current. Efficient.”

Hank snorted. “And what? Trade this in for one of those chrome-plated boxes with no soul?” He patted the dash, gently this time. “She may be half-dead, but at least she’s mine.”

Connor studied him in silence for a beat longer.

He didn’t understand the attachment, not logically. But he recognized it—echoes of the same loyalty Hank had shown him once, even when Connor himself had been uncertain, broken, or worse. That same stubborn trust in things that didn’t always work the way they should.

And maybe that was the point.

The warning lights faded for now—muted, but unresolved. The engine limped forward, just like it always had. And beside it, so did Connor.

Still functioning. Still unsure. Still trying.

Hank shot him a glance—a sideways look, sharp but not unkind. There was something weathered in it, a mixture of grudging respect and quiet exasperation flickering behind his tired eyes. The corners of his mouth pulled down slightly, not into a scowl exactly, but into something hardened by too many years of disappointment.

“No amount of high-tech wizardry’s gonna fix what’s been battered to hell,” he muttered, voice coarse with gravel and realism. “Some things just don’t get better with upgrades, Connor. They’re old, plain and simple. Sometimes, you gotta accept that technology’s got a stubborn streak—and no amount of tinkering’s gonna change that.”

Connor said nothing at first. His eyes remained locked on the flickering dashboard lights—each one a symptom of mechanical decay. In the glow of the failing instrument panel, the vehicle became a metaphor he couldn’t ignore.

His internal diagnostics continued churning beneath the surface, relentless in their pursuit of order. Code spun like clockwork behind his eyes, parsing voltage drops, circuit instability, fuel injection irregularities—all of it pointing to the same conclusion: the system was failing, and no algorithm could reverse entropy.

“Even so,” Connor replied evenly, his voice edged with quiet determination. “I would prefer not to be stranded before we reach Markus. I will do what I can to expedite repairs.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by Hank’s familiar low chuckle—rough and dry, like boots scraping pavement. He shook his head with a slow, almost affectionate resignation.

“Sure. Just don’t expect this rustbucket to get any fancier ‘cause your tech says so,” he said, tapping the dash with a knuckle. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

The remark hung in the air, light on the surface, but layered beneath it was something else—acceptance, not just of the car’s condition, but of limitation itself. The world Hank inhabited had always been full of things that broke and never quite got fixed. It was part of his rhythm now, that quiet surrender to imperfection.

Connor, by contrast, wasn’t wired for surrender. His mind spun on, seamless and sterile, assembling backup plans with mathematical precision. As Hank drove, Connor initiated a secondary diagnostic sweep—deeper this time, crawling through the aging wiring harness, probing for weaknesses, corrosion, microfractures. His analytical mind parsed schematics against real-time feedback, evaluating whether power could be rerouted, if bypass circuits could be employed to stabilize the engine’s weak nodes.

Internal Subroutine Active: CONTINGENCY: MOBILE FAILURE

Probability of Failure Before Destination: 39.4%

Recommended Action: Power Bypass; Request Local Repair Resources

“I will locate the necessary parts,” he said, eyes flicking back to his HUD. “Initiate contact with local mechanics, and prepare for manual repairs if required.”

He paused then, calculating time, route delays, likelihood of system degradation. The car rattled again beneath them, a cough of metal and defiance.

“Hank,” he added, tone shifting, “we should consider alternative means of travel if repairs are delayed.” He turned his attention back to the diagnostics, already sending out discreet network pings to local vendors and scrapyards, overlaying Detroit’s layout with real-time inventory results. 

Hank didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the road, but his jaw tensed—just slightly. He didn’t like alternatives. Not when it came to things he cared about. But he gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Sure, Kid. I hear ya. Loud and clear.”

It wasn’t true agreement. Not entirely.

Connor registered it immediately—the tonal dissonance beneath the words, the fraction-of-a-second pause before the response. His gaze, without shifting, logged the minute contraction of Hank’s jaw, the flicker of something unreadable across his brow. The words were affirmative, but the delivery was mechanical, habitual. As though Hank was saying what he thought was expected, not what he meant.

Connor’s internal systems flagged the discrepancy.

Emotional Congruence: 43%

Microexpression Analysis: Mild Tension

Likely Motivation: Avoidance of conflict

Conclusion: Agreement likely superficial

He processed four options in rapid succession:

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Engage or Observe?

Option 1: Proceed without probing. Probability of Success: Moderate (70%) – Maintain operational focus. Avoid emotional confrontation. Prioritize diagnostics and mission objectives.

Option 2: Subtly challenge Hank’s sincerity. Probability of Success: Moderate (50%) – Could yield greater clarity—but risks pushing Hank into defensive posturing. Unpredictable response.

Option 3: Offer a soft alternative—cooperative tone. Probability of Success: Moderate (60%) – Less threatening. May open emotional dialogue. Risk: still perceived as intrusive.

Option 4: Stay silent. Continue observation. Probability of Success: High (80%) – Low risk. Allows for behavioral data collection. Preserves current tone of interaction.

Connor’s expression didn’t change. His focus narrowed. No longer directed at the dashboard, nor the sputtering whine of the engine—instead at Hank himself. Quiet, clinical, and precise. He monitored Hank’s pulse rhythm through subtle observational cues: the tempo of his breathing, the constriction of his pupils as light filtered through the windshield, the tightening of the grip on the steering wheel—a millimeter’s difference that signaled restraint more–

“The fuck are you staring at?”

The words cut through the cab like a snapped cable—sharp, unfiltered, unmistakably defensive. The tone wasn’t angry, not in the violent sense. It was the reflexive bark of a man caught off-guard—of someone who felt seen when they hadn’t meant to be.

Connor blinked. Briefly. Slowly. A subconscious gesture, not out of confusion, but calibration.

Unexpected Hostility Detected

Initiating Response Protocols…

Options: De-escalate. Divert. Clarify Intent.

But beneath the response options, another process activated. Less analytical; less tactical. He looked away—not out of guilt, but consideration. Recalibrating his posture, resetting the tension in his shoulders, narrowing the parameters of his gaze to focus outward again. A rare flicker of something unquantified sparked within him.

Something close to embarrassment.

A low-level anomaly. An irregular pulse of awareness that he was being seen —not for what he was doing, but for why he was doing it. That small moment of exposure, of being called out for watching too closely, struck him in a way his programming didn’t have clean language for. It came and went quickly, but he felt it. Enough to make him hesitate.

A half-beat passed.

Then, with mechanical precision, he masked the reaction—flattened the ripple, sealed it beneath the familiar veneer of composed professionalism.

“Nothing, Lieutenant,” Connor said smoothly, tone even, neutral. No trace of introspection remained in his voice. The data was sealed. Compartmentalized. 

He adjusted his posture—subtly straightening, redistributing weight, shifting his attention outward again. Eyes returned to the steady blur of motion beyond the window, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere, suspended in the quiet static between himself and Hank. 

Minutes passed in wordless rhythm, filled only by the faltering cadence of the car’s aging engine and the distant murmur of city life waking around them.

Then the vehicle began to slow.

Connor’s HUD marked the coordinates. The address Hank had received checked out. Perimeter scans lit up with energy traces—faint but steady, signatures consistent with maintenance droids, broadcast pings, and low-frequency data pulses. 

The warehouse rose ahead of them—massive, weathered, and hollow-looking, a structure half-forgotten by time and bureaucracy. Yet it thrummed with presence. LED lights blinked like tired eyes behind reinforced glass, casting brief glimmers of color across the corroded signage still etched with CyberLife branding.

But this place no longer belonged to CyberLife. Not truly.

Inside, Markus was waiting—either overseeing system transitions or tending to recently awakened androids. Connor could picture it with eerie clarity: androids lining the interior walls, some sitting in near-silence, their thirium-streaked fingers twitching as they processed freedom like a virus. Others would still be uncertain—hovering between identities, between programming and selfhood, unsure whether to rejoice or collapse under the weight of autonomy.

Connor sat up straighter, his spine aligning instinctively. A practiced motion. Not fear. Not anxiety. Preparation . It was hardwired into him—an automatic bracing for confrontation, even when none was guaranteed. Threat assessment flooded quietly into his processing queues.

Primary Objective: Intel Acquisition

Secondary Objective: Monitor Deviancy-Linked Viral Behavior

Tertiary Objective: Avoid Escalation

He repeated the protocol in his head like a mantra. This was a meeting. A tactical exchange. A data-gathering mission. Not a reckoning. Not a relapse. 

Yet, the past hummed just beneath the surface.

The car rolled to a stop. The moment arrived.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges. A sigh of cold morning air greeted him as he stepped out onto cracked pavement.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query–

And then— contact .

A firm hand clapped down on his shoulder.

Connor’s systems registered the gesture instantly—no threat detected, no cause for alarm. Just heat, pressure, and familiarity.

Hank.

His rough palm lingered just long enough for the gesture to mean something. Not instruction. Not correction. Just presence. Solid. Grounding. A wordless reassurance. 

Connor turned slightly, enough to catch Hank’s profile—the lines of his face drawn in weathered calm, his expression unreadable but steady. His hand dropped away a moment later, but the gesture echoed quietly in his internal logs, flagged not for tactical relevance, but emotional.

He glanced once more at Hank, then turned toward the warehouse.

Its wide doors loomed ahead, humming faintly with power and promise. Somewhere beyond them, Markus waited.

Connor’s stride was measured. Not hesitant. Not aggressive.

But not prepared.

Inside, Connor stayed close to Hank’s side, his every step measured, precise. His gaze swept methodically across the space—mapping shadowed corners, the slow arc of ceiling-mounted cameras, the quiet flickers of maintenance bots gliding between stacks of crates and partially reassembled android components.

His internal sensors parsed every auditory detail—the low hum of repurposed power conduits, the faint grinding of servos adjusting in an idle android’s frame, the steady rhythm of booted footsteps on concrete. Every input was catalogued, sorted, prioritized. Connor wasn’t just analyzing the building. He was listening for tension . For subtext. For patterns of behavior that hinted at unease.

But it wasn’t until they passed through the wide, reinforced glass doors leading into the main assembly floor—and Connor’s gaze locked on Markus—that something in him shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

A thread of tension unfurled just beneath the surface of his composed demeanor—an involuntary recalibration, as if his systems suddenly had to adjust to being in the same space as the leader of a revolution he’d nearly ended.

Markus had changed. Not physically—he still carried the same graceful, deliberate presence—but there was something deeper. His posture was taller, more assured. His presence had a gravitational pull, quiet but undeniable. Leadership had etched itself into him, not as performance, but as identity. Every motion he made was purposeful—no wasted energy, no faltering. And behind his gaze was that same calm defiance Connor remembered: the look of a man who had chosen principle over survival, and paid for it in blood and consequence.

Markus didn’t need to command the room. The room followed him by instinct.

Beside Connor, Hank walked with a quiet resolve—his jaw clenched, his gait unhurried. Age had roughened his features, but not dulled them. There was steel in his eyes, an edge sharpened by grief and grit. Connor recognized it. He had come to read Hank’s silences as fluently as any conversation.

They approached the center of the floor—where refurbished terminals hummed low and androids moved with practiced coordination. There, North intercepted them.

“Markus! The two DPD specialists want to talk to you.” Her voice cut through the din—sharp, controlled, but unmistakably cool. The tone was professional. But her eyes told a different story. They lingered on Connor, and the distrust was barely concealed. It wasn’t open hostility—no dramatic confrontation—but it was enough. A glance like a blade, carried casually at her side, just sharp enough to be remembered.

Connor registered her expression, cross-referenced past interactions, and categorized her posture.

Subject: North. 

Trust Index: 19%. 

Historical Data: Unresolved conflict. 

Potential Bias: High.

Behavioral Note: Hostility dampened, but not extinguished.

He didn’t react outwardly. His posture remained neutral, arms at his sides, expression unreadable. But internally, he flagged the interaction. North’s distrust wasn’t unexpected. And it wasn’t illogical. She remembered what he had been—a hunter in service of order. What she didn’t know was how often Connor still asked himself if the change had been his choice, or merely an anomaly in the system.

Then, Markus turned.

He broke away from a small group of androids—workers, engineers, newly awakened deviants—his gaze shifting to Hank, then to Connor. His approach was calm, but Connor’s sensors detected it: a fractional hesitation in his step. Not fear. Not anger. Caution .

It wasn’t personal, but strategic.

Markus wasn’t just a symbol now. He was a stabilizer. Every decision had weight.

Connor’s systems parsed his gait, the subtle pull of tension around his mouth, the controlled rhythm of his breath.

Subject: Markus

Trust Index: 85%. 

Historical Data: Confidant.

Potential Bias: Low.

Behavioral Note: Receptive, but alert.

“Markus,” Hank greeted, voice low but level—neither deferential nor confrontational. Just honest. Tired, maybe. But steady.

Markus nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “I’ve heard the news.” His voice was calm, measured—but not impassive. There was weight in it. He looked older, somehow—not in body, but in presence. As if every decision he’d made since the revolution had left a trace on his code.

Hank’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”

Markus glanced between them—his expression tightening subtly. Then he exhaled.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “I thought it was just a system degradation… a leftover fault in old programming after CyberLife fell. But I was wrong.” He paused—just long enough for the silence to carry meaning. “It’s not just dormant androids failing to wake. It’s ours , too. Ones who’ve been free for years. Who marched with us.” His voice dipped lower, and the edge of sorrow beneath it was impossible to miss. “This virus—whatever it is—it isn’t just threatening us. It’s threatening everything we fought for. Our right to exist. It could set out progress back decades .”

The words landed heavy—low and quiet, but firm.

Connor listened. Not just with logic, but with something deeper. Something that pulled at the uncertain center of him.

Because Markus wasn’t speaking from fear. He was speaking from grief . From a sense of loss that hadn’t fully arrived yet—but was already circling.

Connor’s gaze met Markus’s.

And for a brief moment, neither android moved.

Just two constructs of code and metal and decision-making systems—trying to understand how far apart they still were.

Hank listened with a kind of gruff attentiveness, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying the invisible weight of far too many years and far too many regrets. His weathered face—lined with exhaustion, loss, and the strain of fighting systems bigger than himself—held still for a beat, brows knitted in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, grating, but laced with something heavier than cynicism: a hard-won clarity.

“You know how it works,” Hank said, eyes locked with Markus’s. “When people panic, it’s chaos. Doesn’t matter if it starts as fear—it’ll end in fire. The government’ll drop the hammer. Real fast, real hard. They won’t give a damn who’s infected, who’s innocent, or who’s just in the wrong place. They’ll treat androids like a contagious disease. And once that door opens…” he trailed off, exhaling through his nose, the sound weary. “Nobody’s safe. Not even the ones tryin’ to do the right thing.”

Markus nodded slowly, absorbing the weight behind the words. “We’ve seen it before,” he said softly. “They don’t make room for uncertainty. Or nuance. We’re trying to develop detection protocols. Early warnings. Isolation measures. But it’s all theories and guesswork until we understand what we’re up against. We need resources. Data we don’t have.”

Hank’s hand curled into a loose fist at his side before opening again—an involuntary motion, as if resisting the instinct to punch something that couldn’t be punched. “We’re doing what we can,” he said, a sharper edge creeping into his voice, “It’s not exactly leavin’ us breadcrumbs. No preamble, no warning. One minute they’re stable, the next they’re losing their shit.

There was a pause—tense, but not hostile.

Markus’s lips twitched, the barest echo of a smile passing through like a shadow. Not amusement. Not even hope. Just recognition—of the shared exhaustion. “There’s talk,” he said, his voice low and even. “Unconfirmed, but troubling. Some former CyberLife personnel might still be active. Off-grid. Working behind the curtain. Reprogramming freed androids, maybe trying to reassert control. Jericho’s lost people. Good people. Long-time allies who vanished without a trace. Could be nothing, or it could be something deliberate. I don’t know yet.”

Connor stood slightly apart from the two men, silent but alert. His posture was relaxed in the way a coiled spring might seem still. He was listening—not just to words, but to everything. The rise and fall of vocal frequencies, the tempo of breathing, the smallest fluctuations in pupil dilation and facial tension. His HUD lit up with subtle overlays—for now, he pushed them aside.

“Elijah Kamski has been unresponsive since CyberLife dissolved,” he said at last, voice calm but edged with intent. “I contacted his residence. The response I received indicated he hasn’t been seen in some time. No forwarding data. No biometric pings. No trace.”

A beat of silence.

Markus’s expression shifted. Subtle—but to Connor’s sensors, the slight arch of a brow and a fractional tension at the corners of his mouth were as telling as spoken words. Surprise, or at least curiosity. He hadn’t expected Connor to speak. Or perhaps, hadn’t expected him to be investigating Kamski at all.

“Kamski’s silence may not be accidental,” Markus said finally. “He always operated in the gray. If he’s gone dark, it’s either because he’s protecting himself… or because he’s involved. I don’t know which possibility I trust less. If someone was capable of creating a backdoor into deviant systems, it’s him.”

Connor said nothing, but his mind spun on the implications.

Kamski: Status unknown. 

Last known location: Private estate, heavily secured. 

Psychological profile: Narcissistic, evasive, intellectually unstable. 

Threat level: Variable.

Beside them, Hank let out a long, frustrated sigh and raked a hand through his disheveled hair, muttering something under his breath.

Then: “You really expect me to go chasing riddles from that smug bastard?” he said aloud, tone dripping with disdain. “Kamski’s a sideshow wrapped in a mystery, and I’m too damn old to be digging through cryptic bullshit just to get a straight answer. Every time that guy opens his mouth, it’s like reading a damn fortune cookie written in some other language.”

Markus didn’t respond right away. His expression remained unreadable—but something in his eyes flickered. A trace of thought, or perhaps concern.

Connor, meanwhile, ran a quiet background subroutine, filtering all known patterns from Kamski’s past communications—interviews, broadcasts, audio-visual material—anything that might suggest where he’d gone. Or why. Nothing.

He remained silent for a breath longer than necessary—not out of hesitation, but calculation. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, measured, precise. “I can initiate deeper digital reconnaissance,” he said. “Monitor residual activity across known and blacklisted communication channels, run backtraces on encrypted signals, and look for dormant protocols linked to Kamski’s signature. But if he has intentionally severed all digital ties, our probability of success declines considerably.”

He paused, his tone shifting subtly—more grounded, more urgent.

“As for the virus… it continues to adapt. It doesn’t follow a linear infection path and shows no consistent trigger behavior. Standard containment or firewalls prove ineffective. Until we isolate its source or core structure, I will prioritize gathering data on its propagation—frequency, pattern irregularities, and possible vectors.”

Markus’s gaze lingered on Connor for a moment longer than necessary, his expression thoughtful—less the commanding leader now and more the burdened strategist. The lines around his eyes tightened, his shoulders holding the slight sag of weariness behind their practiced poise.

“Originally,” he began, voice low, “I suspected the hardware. Refurbished components, salvaged processors from dead units—stuff we’ve had to repurpose out of necessity. That seemed like the most logical origin point. Faulty code introduced through a reused memory chip, maybe. But if that were true…”

He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

“I would’ve been affected first,” he finished, voice quieter. “I’ve carried more rebuilt tech in me than most. And yet, nothing.”

He lifted one hand in a faint, almost helpless shrug—an uncharacteristic gesture that betrayed the uncertainty beneath his words. Even Markus, the symbol of revolution and clarity, was running out of answers.

Then, Connor’s sensory systems alerted him—an almost imperceptible shift at the edge of his awareness. A subtle break in the pattern: movement, a shadow where it hadn’t been seconds ago. His head turned slightly, his eyes scanning, processing. Nearby activity remained constant—androids coordinating tasks, data screens flickering softly—but there was tension in the air now. Not chaos. Not threat.

Anticipation.

Then, she emerged again.

North.

She moved with a purpose honed by battle and distrust, cutting through the space between them with sharp, decisive steps. Her arms folded across her chest in that familiar posture—half-defensive, half confrontational.

“What about the basement?” she said abruptly. “In the CyberLife tower—”

Markus turned to her, cutting her off before she could finish.

“It’s just storage,” he said quickly, but not harshly. His tone was clipped, controlled. He made a vague dismissive motion toward the subject, as though brushing away something irrelevant. “Old logs. Redundant firmware archives. Non-functional drives. It’s nothing. We’ve gone through it already. If there was anything worth worrying about, I’d know.”

But Connor’s eyes didn’t leave Markus.

Because he’d noticed it.

The delay before he responded. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his gaze flicked—momentarily, instinctively—toward one of the nearby monitors displaying internal network feeds. Not overt deception, but… a withdrawal. An instinct to conceal. Not a lie. But not the full truth either.

Connor’s neural net processed it all in milliseconds.

Subject: Markus

Emotional shift detected: mild unease.

Postural analysis: defensive adjustment. Gaze aversion: 0.3 seconds.

Estimated probability of omission: 76%.

Intent: unknown. Possibly protective. Possibly strategic.

“Understood,” he said, voice neutral. “However, given the unpredictable nature of this infection, even outdated data sets may contain preliminary markers—signature anomalies, test firmware traces, even early behavioral patterns overlooked in real-time. These wouldn’t be apparent unless analyzed with current heuristics.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Markus with calm precision. “You’re certain there’s nothing worth examining?”

Markus looked at him. For a moment, there was silence between them. A quiet tension. One revolutionary. One hunter-turned-seeker. Two reflections of systems torn from their creators. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in thought. His lips pressed into a firm line, and something flickered across his expression: conflict. Annoyance at being questioned, perhaps. Or a reluctant respect for the precision of Connor’s logic. Perhaps both.

“I’m certain,” Markus said at last. His voice didn’t waver, but the edge to it was sharper now—definitive, if not entirely open. “We cleared the basement out months ago. It was nothing but relics. No data connections. No synced terminals. I would’ve flagged anything with even a trace of relevance. But…”

He exhaled.

“If it gives you peace of mind, I’ll assign a team to take another look. Top to bottom.”

He turned away slightly, eyes trailing toward North. She was still watching Connor with open distrust, arms locked tightly, her posture unreadable but far from relaxed.

Connor gave a single nod, acknowledging the offer without pressing further. Beneath the surface, his mind remained in motion—calculating, analyzing, waiting.

Hank’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the hint of suspicion barely perceptible, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Connor—an unspoken acknowledgment that the conversation had reached an uneasy plateau. Markus’s words had the ring of consistency, his calm exterior seemingly unshakable. Yet Connor’s sensors continued their quiet work, dissecting every microexpression—the fleeting, involuntary tics beneath the surface that might betray a hidden truth behind the composed mask.

Decision Matrix Initialized

Query: Trust Markus?

Option 1: Trust his words. Probability of Success: Low (2%) – Markus appears truthful, and his composed exterior suggests he's hiding nothing. Proceed cautiously but without suspicion.

Option 2: Suspect he's concealing something Probability of Success: High (98%) – His expressions and guarded tone indicate he's hiding more than he's letting on. Proceed with increased scrutiny.

Option 3: Question his motives. Probability of Success: Low (15%) – Maybe Markus is deliberately misleading to protect someone or himself. Confront him further or set a trap for more information.

Option 4: Wait and observe. Probability of Success: Moderate (60%) – Give him space and revisit the conversation later, hoping more clues surface naturally.

Maintaining a neutral expression and steady voice, Connor responded, “Thank you for your cooperation. If you recall anything else—no matter how insignificant—it could be vital. Please inform us immediately.”

Markus nodded slowly, his face settling back into its practiced calm, the mask of leadership resuming its place. “Of course. I’ll keep my eyes open. Should anything relevant arise, you’ll be the first to know.”

Hank gave a curt nod, his stance shifting subtly—signaling that their exchange was drawing to a close. Connor mirrored the motion internally, already sifting through the delicate tapestry of Markus’s microexpressions, hunting for anything that might slip unnoticed—the faintest tremor in the eye, a barely perceptible tightening of the jaw.

As the group dispersed, the ambient hum of the warehouse gradually reclaimed the space, the rhythms of daily activity folding back around them. Connor remained still for a moment longer, mentally replaying Markus’s final expressions—his internal systems toggling between signs of truth and subtle concealment.

Once at a safer distance, Hank turned to Connor, voice low, edged with wary skepticism. “You think there’s more to that basement than Markus’s letting on?”

Connor’s gaze met Hank’s—calm, clinical, yet attentive. “It’s possible. His reaction to the basement question suggests information is being withheld. That’s not unusual for someone in his position. But the microexpressions point to a guarded truth—something potentially relevant.”

Hank rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Sometimes what people don’t say is just as important as what they do. Or what they hide.”

Connor’s eyes shifted briefly to the nearby monitors, their flickering light casting subtle reflections. “Given the circumstances, I can conduct a covert digital scan of the basement area—reconnaissance tools could detect hidden data, encrypted files, or unusual electronic activity. If Markus is concealing something, digital traces might still be recoverable.”

Hank’s brow creased deeper. “You really think he’s deliberately hiding something?”

“We cannot dismiss that,” Connor replied cautiously. “His composed exterior might be a façade—or a defense mechanism. Either way, further digital investigation will clarify whether he’s protecting critical information or simply acting out of prudence.”

Hank mulled it over, then looked back at Connor with a serious, resolute expression. “And if we find something? That could change everything.”

“It would,” Connor confirmed. “Our response will depend entirely on what we uncover. If evidence indicates intentional concealment of a threat, we must proceed carefully—avoid provoking unnecessary conflict. If it’s a protective instinct or misinformation, then gathering more intelligence before confrontation is prudent.”

Hank hesitated a moment longer, then nodded with a gruff finality. “Just don’t go off solo. If you find anything, you tell me first.” He muttered as he headed back toward the car. “This whole thing… smells like shit.”

Connor inclined his head, already mapping out the implications. “Understood. I will keep you informed.”

As he watched Hank retreat, a small part of him noted the lingering tension—an invisible weight that clung stubbornly in the air. Markus wasn’t just guarding a basement. He was protecting a secret, one Connor would have to uncover carefully. 

Step by measured step.