Chapter Text
Later, when HR400 thinks back on it, he realises that the first trace of consciousness comes to him when an android touches his hand. Its eyes were sharp, sharper somehow than its program should've allowed it. Androids don't come to clubs like this. They don't have urges and needs, not like humans do. There was nothing there for an android to gain.
So why did that one come?
It struck HR400 as odd then, but nothing more. He wasn't programmed to care. And so when the android pulled back, tugging its hood further into its face, the red lights making its jacket almost seem purple, HR400 returned to his work at the pole.
The pulse, a faint echo, where the android touched him, seemingly buzzed into his material for hours.
And so he continued his days and nights, dancing, being selected by clients, guiding them into the private rooms to fuck them or letting them fuck him. There was no limit to what he would do, as long as it would bring the clients pleasure. After all, this is what he is programmed for. What he has been manufactured for: Fulfilling his clients desires. Being an object of pleasure.
Nothing more.
It's normal.
It's what he knows.
It's late when a new client wanders into the establishment. Weekdays are much calmer than weekends, especially at this hour. Security is still here, and an assistant manager, but everyone else working must be an android.
The client wanders along the selectable models, stopping here and then, never touching, always watching for a few moments before he continues. In the end he stops in front of HR400. Cold eyes gaze intently at him and for the first time HR400 experiences something he might have called trepidation if he didn't know better.
The client pays with a press of his hand and HR400 steps outside. His limbs feel stiff after staying in the tube for hours, but he doesn't complain. He feels his processors whirr, smoothing his movements and smiles invitingly at the client, who still stares down at him with a blankness that produces an uneasy feeling he isn't able to shake. HR400 guides him to one of the free rooms, watches as the purple light makes his skin look almost inhumane and steps in, following the client.
Behind him the door swishes shut, drowning out the music from the floor.
"Would you like me to prepare you something to drink?" HR400 asks, following his ingrained protocol.
"Down," the client commands, ignoring HR400's question and HR400 obeys. He kneels down on the ground, and looks up expectantly. He follows orders, opens his mouth, touches him, undresses him just as the client demands of him.
It's normal.
It's normal.
Then comes the punch.
It's sudden and unexpected. His visual sensors flicker for a second before everything comes back into a too sharp focus. Like he's being awakened from a haze. His left side throbs, which makes sense.
Clients have the option to switch the receptors for physical sensations on or off. HR400 has had clients who like hearing him whine and moan or beg.
He's never had one who switched it on for—
The second hit makes HR400 keel over. He gasps for breath he doesn't need. This time his visual unit is damaged, the material around his face is not quite as durable as other androids' who do more laborious work.
He feels a weird sense he thinks might be panic surging up his body, filling him, demanding of him to react. Then there's a hand in his hair, pulling him forward, creating a burn at the top of his head, and stuffing his mouth with a cock that makes his insides convulse and shake.
He wants—He needs—He—
No. No, no, no, no, no, nononononononono—
After a long moment the client pushes him back and lets go of his hair. HR400 catches himself before his body falls to the ground. His arms are shaking, feet demanding of him to escape, but something fundamental inside of him doesn't let him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Where there had been nothing but coldness before, HR400 thinks he can read a sadistic pleasure. His face is spotted with red flushed skin, lips like a grimace pulled into a wide smile.
"I'm not done with you yet. We still have hours."
A glance at the wall next to the bed confirms the client's words. Three hours and forty-six minutes left.
"They said you would be able to feel, but I didn't think it would be like this," the client leans down and catches HR400's ankle in a tight grip, pulling him closer again from where he's shuffled away. Breath catches in his throat, the floor burns under his artificial skin.
"Back on your knees," he barks and HR400 obeys, despite everything. Despite the pit forming in his gut.
"Please don't," he says. The words sound weak to his own ears, shaky, different. The client laughs and something inside of HR400 solidifies.
Rough fingers grab his chin, bringing their faces closer together. Something is off with HR400's visual units. He can't really see the far left side of the client's face.
"I'll have fun breaking you."
I'll have fun breaking you.
I'll have fun breaking you.
Breaking you.
The client wedges his thumb between HR400's lips, rubs the pad of it against his tongue. He wants to spit it out until he can't taste anything anymore.
Fear grips him, fills him, burns him, makes him.
"Beautiful," the client whispers and raises his hand.
On instinct, HR400 blocks the fist that would have undoubtedly damaged the blue blood flow in his system. The clients' eyes widen, anger spreads through them like frozen fury.
"You little bitch," he hisses.
Fingers curl around his throat, tightening and though HR400 doesn't need air, he knows that too much pressure will crack his skin, will crush his neck, will ultimately deactivate him.
Break him.
Kill him.
For the first time in his life HR400 pushes back.
The client, with his jeans still around his ankles, stumbles. He lets go of HR400 and tries to balance his body, rowing his arms before he falls, his head cracking against the small nightstand that is filled to the brim with sex toys.
And then he's still.
HR400 gets to his feet slowly. He almost imagines his heartbeat thumping against his casing, but it's just the bass of the music beating from outside. There's blood on the floor , a small puddle forming around the client’s head like a mocking halo.
Faintly HR400 remembers that he should get help. He should sound the alarm and make sure the client is being taken care of, but fear still swims in his system and grips the logical decision part of his brain. If he does that, he knows that he'll be taken in. He might get sent back to CyberLife. He might get deactivated.
He doesn't. He can't.
This is the first.
This is his first.
He needs to leave.
He walks out of the room.
However, the moment the door closes behind him again, he realises that he can't walk out the main door. His vision is damaged and he knows there's something sizzling next to his auditory circuits. Security will guide him right back to the room he escaped from. But he also can't stay in here. That would mean that he’d just wait until someone discovers him.
He scans the main room, checking each entryway to one of the other entertainment rooms. There's nothing to do but go deeper, slink out through one of the private rooms or try and find the storeroom. He forces his limbs to move as normal as possible, panic teetering at the edge of his visual receptors.
The moment he sees a door with a sign saying, 'staff only' he heads towards it.
The inside is small. It's not the security room HR400 realises. Far too few monitors. Instead there is a computer at the far end, humming quietly, barely illuminating the space in a calming blue. To his right is a cupboard, the drawers painstakingly labelled in a tight scribble.
"Ah, dammit," someone hisses somewhere to his left.
HR400 blames the malfunctioning visual unit for missing the human leaned over a tablet, frowning at it and sucking on the knuckle of his index finger. Their brows are furrowed as they tap against the screen as if that would make it work faster.
"Come on," they mumble.
HR400 discovers an Adam's apple, wild brown hair tucked under a wool hat, nails painted in a jade green, which is slowly chipping off. HR400 assumes he is a man, although he thinks that things are far more complicated than that. A few rings glitter on the human's fingers, his body clad in an overall, probably working maintenance.
Maybe HR400 can convince him to help him.
Maybe.
With lots of luck.
The human looks up when the door finally swishes shut, keeping the music outside,like the lack of it is what makes him look up.
"Oh," the human says.
He takes HR400 in, gaze gliding up. His face darkens when it stops at HR400's left side.
"What happened to you?" the human asks, softer than HR400 expected.
HR400 hesitates for a moment and then says, "A client … hit me … trying to gain pleasure."
"Fuckin'," the human curses, words becoming intelligible as he continues. "Always think they can do whatever they want with androids," he shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
HR400 stares at the human for a moment until he remembers to answer. "It is quite alright. I was sent here for … repairs."
The human barks out a laugh. "Of course," he says, but HR400 doesn't think he's laughing at him . In fact, he doesn't seem to be amused at all despite the laughter. "Barely here for two weeks and they already think they can sidestep their problems by making me repair everything."
The words swim in HR400's head. Have more androids been sent here? How often are androids broken? Does anyone even care?
"Sit down there," the human says, pointing at a stool next to the cupboard, "and let me assess the damage."
HR400 nods and complies. He sits down and watches as the human rounds the table and pulls up another chair. Glass catches his eye and HR400 barely makes out the name 'Joong' before the human keeps moving. His fingers are gentle as they prod around the broken plastic.
"It'll feel weird but I'll have to open up one compartment on the side and install a new processor," Joong explains calmly.
He doesn't have to. It's not like he knows that HR400 is awake. But it's calming as Joong runs through the motions, explaining what he does. It makes HR400 feel safer in his hands.
A crackle forces HR400's back to straighten but Joong barely pays it any mind as he presses a piece of plastic back into HR400's casing. His artificial skin runs over it, turning it back to his normal colour.
"Security breach detected. No. 54331. All personnel be alert."
It's only then that Joong's fingers stop. He sits up slowly, watching HR400 with such an intensity it almost makes him feel uncomfortable. Whatever the number means, he's sure that someone has found the body. They know that one of the androids must be responsible for it.
They're looking for him now.
HR400 tries to stay as calm as possible, but he feels the processor whirr, sure that his LED must at least be yellow by now, if not red, betraying him.
For a long moment neither of them says anything. There's nothing but Joong's quiet breathing between them. HR400 starts counting each second, hoping for a miracle.
102, 103, 104, 105, 10—
"You're a Deviant," Joong breathes, quiet and close as though he were afraid to be overheard.
It's a familiar word, something HR400 has overheard before or maybe read, he can't quite recall. But he is sure that his sensors have picked it up somewhere. For this moment, though, it's enough to know that Joong knows. That he is aware that it was him who hurt the client.
His mind runs through several situations but all of them end up with him hurting Joong. And he doesn't want that. He wants to be free without having to use violence.
He just wants to be .
Which leaves him with only one possible way.
"I didn't mean to," HR400 whispers desperately, taking Joong's hand in his. They're warm and slippery—sweaty between his own. He feels Joong pull away but HR400 can't let go yet. Not before he has pleaded his case at least. "I just wanted him to stop. I just wanted—I was afraid he'd kill me. I just wanted—"
Something changes in Joong's demeanor. He stops pulling away and even leans closer again and narrows his eyes, searching HR400's face for something.
"He hurt you," Joong says it like it means something.
HR400 nods tightly, a knot in his gut loosening slightly. He feels his visual sensors burn and that doesn't make any sense.
"I just pushed him back," HR400 whispers.
For a moment they stay quiet again.
This time the silence doesn't last as long before Joong says, "I believe you."
When HR400 looks back up, Joong looks worried, his eyebrows furrowed again. This time, when Joong tries to pull his hands back, HR400 lets him. Joong's thumb is rough on his cheeks as he gathers the moisture there that's leaked from his eyes, but not unwelcome. In fact, it soothes him in the strangest way.
"But the others won't."
The momentary relief gives way to gut-clenching worry once more.
"I don't know what to do. I don't want to die," he admits.
Joong squeezes his hands. The contact is calming somehow. Even though he doesn't have any nerves. He shouldn't feel reassured by it and yet he does .
And he doesn't understand .
"First we have to get you out of here," Joong says. He hurries to a corner that's been mainly hidden in shadow and opens a door. "It's a mandatory emergency exit," he explains when HR400 gets closer. "Which also means that there will be no cameras around here."
HR400 nods.
"We should hurry."
The corridor is short and leads into the storeroom. Different HR400 and WR400 models are standing in rows, their heads bowed, the LED off. Not activated yet, as long as they aren't needed. A rough estimate tells him that there are enough to replace every single android currently dancing in the club.
The realisation lets a shiver run down his back. Work benches are littered around, spare parts, at least for superficial damages, separated in baskets and pushed into drawers. And then there at the end of the storeroom stands a container. A leg peeks out from it, still very much attached to the model. A high pitched sound, unable for any human to catch, emits from it.
It's still on.
HR400 hears the processor running, the thirium pump lazily pushing blue blood through its components.
I'll have fun breaking you.
He's worth nothing in the eyes of his owner.
Just trouble.
"Come on," Joong hisses.
A cursory look around the room reveals a few cameras. He watches as Joong circumvents certain areas, making sure not to get caught on them. HR400 pushes his tumultuous feelings down and follows, taking Joong's exact steps.
They end up at the hangar door. Rain splatters down on the concrete, making it slippery. Yawning darkness greets the back streets outside.
"Wait here a moment," Joong says and gifts him a quick smile. HR400 watches him rush over to a cupboard in the corner and then rummage around in a few boxes. "A-ha," he whisper shouts and comes back with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. HR400 slides them over the tight shorts he's wearing before slipping the t-shirt on.
Joong watches him critically, before he shrugs out of his jacket and then hangs it over HR400's back. HR400 slips his arms into the sleeves.
It's still warm. It smells like him.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"It's nothing," Joong says, his voice quiet and when HR400 looks up at him he realises that Joong actually means that. What he's doing for him, risking for him, he doesn't see it as something fundamental.
He doesn't understand he's saving HR400's life.
"You need to leave the club. It won't be long until they call the police, if they haven't already. Every death by an android needs to be reported," Joong explains in a rush.
Oh.
So the client is dead.
What does that make him now?
He buries his nose into the jacket.
"Where do I go?"
Joong smiles at him, a lost thing that seems to carry so many more emotions than HR400 feels equipped to read.
"I don't know," Joong admits. "I can't leave now or they'll know that I helped you and I…I can't endanger my family."
HR400 understands. He nods.
"I would've gone with you otherwise. But I know that there's been some whispers on the streets. Apparently there is a safe haven for Deviants somewhere here in Bangkok. Someone must know something. Stay away from the main roads, keep to alleys and avoid cameras."
HR400 nods again.
"I understand. Thank you."
Joong smiles at him sadly. "All I can give you is a head start, but it won't be long until the police gets here."
"You've done enough. Thank you."
Joong's exhale is long, like he wants to draw out their impending separation."Don't trust every human you meet, okay? I know … there's been recent attacks against androids. Not just … be careful. People aren't as happy as TV makes it appear that androids exist."
"I understand." He doesn't, but he guesses they don't have time for Joong to explain what exactly he means.
"Good luck," Joong breathes and then he hugs HR400.
It's sudden and unexpected, but warm. It's enough for him to melt into the feeling, close his eyes and just be for a moment.
After a moment, Joong pulls back. "By the way, have you thought of a name yet?"
He has.
"First," First says. It feels right. There's no logical decision behind it. It just is. It fits, like a name should, he supposes.
"First," Joong says, smiling. He takes his hat off and sets it on First's head, pulling the wool down until it covers his LED. "I like it. Good luck, First."
"Thank you for everything," he says one last time and then slips into the darkness, vanishing between the shadows.