Connor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notalive) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dualislogs2019-12-03 09:19 am
notalive) wrote in dualislogs2019-12-03 09:19 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Connor, Hank, OTA
WHAT: Connor's blood is valuable to the mob. They pay him a visit.
WHERE: Some side street somewhere, a small hospital
WHEN: Dec 2., evening
WARNINGS: Gun violence, regular violence, drug references, Hank's mouth probably
"Connor!"
Connor had looked up from where he was in the middle of filing his tickets for the day to catch sight of one of the department's top detectives approaching at a jog. Collins is disarming - friendly to everyone, but not too much. Enough to put anybody at ease, but never smarmy, never annoying. Connor likes him - he seems like somebody who's put in a lot of hard work to get where he is, and the more Connor's existed as a deviant, awkwardly aware of being programmed for success in this job, the more he's come to respect that.
"Detective Collins." They're not friendly enough that Connor can drop the rank and use first names, even though no one has much choice with Connor: he has no surname, and apparently 'Officer Connor' makes him sound like he's doing an elementary school visit. "Do you need something? I'm about to clock out."
"Shit, really?" Collins had grimaced. "I was gonna ask you earlier and I couldn't find you."
But Connor'd had time, and it's not like he gets tired, so he volunteered. Another drug bust on Hank's case - all the evidence had been cleared except the car itself and it was getting impounded later that night. They needed it checked before then for traces of narcotics - "You're the only one who can check for that Red Ice shit you told me about, right?"
That's how Connor ends up still on the clock at 21:00, hopping off a bus in a part of town he doesn't spend too much time in to find some soon-to-be-impounded car. He finds it soon enough - Collins gave him the key and all - but a quick scan of the inside tells him there's nothing. Well, almost nothing - there's old weed in the glove box. But nothing from this case, none of the chemical compounds Hank's filled him in on, definitely no Red Ice. A car involved in a drug bust is going to have traces of drugs in it - maybe not visible to the human eye, but to Connor? If there had been drugs in this car within the past six weeks, he'd know about it.
He's emerging from the car, frowning to himself, when he notices the previously empty street isn't empty anymore. People are walking down from both ends of the road - two from one side, three from the other and another one stopped at the mouth of the small alleyway fifty feet from Connor. They arrived at the same time, and they're going to converge on him within a minute. It's a narrow road, there's nowhere else to go.
Quickly, efficiently, biting down a hunch that he'll hate himself for having only if it turns out to be wrong, he opens the driver side door and reaches in, jamming the key in the ignition and turning it as he ignores the yellow light of his LED filling the dark vehicle. Nothing. Battery's dead.
All androids have the ability to speed their processing units up to such immense speeds that time virtually stops around them, and this is what Connor does to calculate an escape route. Assume at least three of the six are armed. The car's dead. Connor is entirely unarmed. In his current position, in the centre of the narrow road, his best defence is that in order to shoot him, they risk missing and shooting one another. They have to be careful too.
If they're planning to kill him, they've got about a 67% chance of successfully doing it. He's worked with worse.
Less than a second's visualisation and calculation later, Connor twists on his heel and dashes forwards - with the open car door somewhat shielding him in the back, at the group of three. Two of them immediately draw guns - shots ring out, deafening as they echo about the narrow street. Connor can't dodge bullets - but he's fast enough to get out of the way of the human hands moving the guns behind the bullets, so it looks like he dodges them.
First human disarmed as Connor reaches under the gun and twists them by the wrist - he yanks them forward by the arm so he can use their body as a shield from the other one, then as a battering ram to hit both the other humans at once--
--ERROR--
--a bullet passes through his right knee, a lucky shot that sends Connor sprawling, yellow LED immediately red. It makes the thirium spattered on the ground seem to glow purple.
They're shouting at each other. Nothing of any consequence, he ignores it.
There's no pain, androids don't feel it, and Connor doesn't have to look to know that the handgun he knocked flying is seven feet to his right. He plants his left foot on the asphalt, pivots, dives - and something very solid slams into his left temple hard enough that for one nerve-jangling instant, his vision in one eye blacks out before his optical unit recalibrates itself. Steel-toed boot, is the conclusion of the impact assessment in the half second before Connor crashes to the ground, rolls--
The gun's gone, skittering off across the road as someone kicks it.
Their chances just went up to somewhere in the high 90s.
a/ OTA
Connor's felt fear before. He's felt anger. But in that instant, they burst into something white hot that refuses to be put down like this. Not like this, not at all. Ignoring the error messages cascading with every forced movement of his near-ruined knee, he twists his legs under him and makes one last desperate charge directly at the nearest of his attackers.
But he's not sure what could save him now.
b/ OTA
He remembers something he told Markus once, the leader of the android revolution. Statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place. And take place they just did, because Connor is alive. Limping, his optic nerve unstable behind the socket and compensating furiously, but he's alive. He stops in a back door of the police station - he doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, not like this, not with the suspicions he has. But he needs to stash his uniform and he needs what's still in the evidence locker.
"Don't ask," he tells the alarmed-looking patrol cop manning the locker, and that gets him a plastic water bottle filled with glowing thirium.
And he's out on the street, winter, no jacket, in just his button-up shirt and tie, limping, fluorescent blue splatters on his pants and face, LED cycling red, carrying a bottle of something that looks downright radioactive. He knows he's attracting attention, but he doesn't have much option right now.
Hospital. He needs to get to a hospital. A small one.
c/ Closed to Hank
He has scabs. His thirium has clotted around his temple, where the steel toe split his chassis open, trying to hold the wound closed. He actually smiled when he realised it - the mods he got really worked - and apparently his tongue had bled too when he bit it on one of the impacts, because the nurse stitching his head had recoiled from the blue stains on his teeth.
The hospital hadn't known what to do with him until he told them he'd heal like a human. So…they're treating him like a human. They can't fix his knee, but he can already feel his insides slowly, at a glacial pace, fixing themselves. They stitch and bandage it, then give him crutches and strict instructions he already plans to ignore.
Then they ask if he has someone who can take him home. That brings the worst part of this crashing in - Hank's going to have to see him like this. And he has to explain what happened, and his hunch.
He uses a hospital phone to call - his own is gone, and he has a vague memory of dropping it at the scene. It's probably been destroyed by now.
"Hank?"
WHAT: Connor's blood is valuable to the mob. They pay him a visit.
WHERE: Some side street somewhere, a small hospital
WHEN: Dec 2., evening
WARNINGS: Gun violence, regular violence, drug references, Hank's mouth probably
"Connor!"
Connor had looked up from where he was in the middle of filing his tickets for the day to catch sight of one of the department's top detectives approaching at a jog. Collins is disarming - friendly to everyone, but not too much. Enough to put anybody at ease, but never smarmy, never annoying. Connor likes him - he seems like somebody who's put in a lot of hard work to get where he is, and the more Connor's existed as a deviant, awkwardly aware of being programmed for success in this job, the more he's come to respect that.
"Detective Collins." They're not friendly enough that Connor can drop the rank and use first names, even though no one has much choice with Connor: he has no surname, and apparently 'Officer Connor' makes him sound like he's doing an elementary school visit. "Do you need something? I'm about to clock out."
"Shit, really?" Collins had grimaced. "I was gonna ask you earlier and I couldn't find you."
But Connor'd had time, and it's not like he gets tired, so he volunteered. Another drug bust on Hank's case - all the evidence had been cleared except the car itself and it was getting impounded later that night. They needed it checked before then for traces of narcotics - "You're the only one who can check for that Red Ice shit you told me about, right?"
That's how Connor ends up still on the clock at 21:00, hopping off a bus in a part of town he doesn't spend too much time in to find some soon-to-be-impounded car. He finds it soon enough - Collins gave him the key and all - but a quick scan of the inside tells him there's nothing. Well, almost nothing - there's old weed in the glove box. But nothing from this case, none of the chemical compounds Hank's filled him in on, definitely no Red Ice. A car involved in a drug bust is going to have traces of drugs in it - maybe not visible to the human eye, but to Connor? If there had been drugs in this car within the past six weeks, he'd know about it.
He's emerging from the car, frowning to himself, when he notices the previously empty street isn't empty anymore. People are walking down from both ends of the road - two from one side, three from the other and another one stopped at the mouth of the small alleyway fifty feet from Connor. They arrived at the same time, and they're going to converge on him within a minute. It's a narrow road, there's nowhere else to go.
Quickly, efficiently, biting down a hunch that he'll hate himself for having only if it turns out to be wrong, he opens the driver side door and reaches in, jamming the key in the ignition and turning it as he ignores the yellow light of his LED filling the dark vehicle. Nothing. Battery's dead.
All androids have the ability to speed their processing units up to such immense speeds that time virtually stops around them, and this is what Connor does to calculate an escape route. Assume at least three of the six are armed. The car's dead. Connor is entirely unarmed. In his current position, in the centre of the narrow road, his best defence is that in order to shoot him, they risk missing and shooting one another. They have to be careful too.
If they're planning to kill him, they've got about a 67% chance of successfully doing it. He's worked with worse.
Less than a second's visualisation and calculation later, Connor twists on his heel and dashes forwards - with the open car door somewhat shielding him in the back, at the group of three. Two of them immediately draw guns - shots ring out, deafening as they echo about the narrow street. Connor can't dodge bullets - but he's fast enough to get out of the way of the human hands moving the guns behind the bullets, so it looks like he dodges them.
First human disarmed as Connor reaches under the gun and twists them by the wrist - he yanks them forward by the arm so he can use their body as a shield from the other one, then as a battering ram to hit both the other humans at once--
--ERROR--
--a bullet passes through his right knee, a lucky shot that sends Connor sprawling, yellow LED immediately red. It makes the thirium spattered on the ground seem to glow purple.
They're shouting at each other. Nothing of any consequence, he ignores it.
There's no pain, androids don't feel it, and Connor doesn't have to look to know that the handgun he knocked flying is seven feet to his right. He plants his left foot on the asphalt, pivots, dives - and something very solid slams into his left temple hard enough that for one nerve-jangling instant, his vision in one eye blacks out before his optical unit recalibrates itself. Steel-toed boot, is the conclusion of the impact assessment in the half second before Connor crashes to the ground, rolls--
The gun's gone, skittering off across the road as someone kicks it.
Their chances just went up to somewhere in the high 90s.
a/ OTA
Connor's felt fear before. He's felt anger. But in that instant, they burst into something white hot that refuses to be put down like this. Not like this, not at all. Ignoring the error messages cascading with every forced movement of his near-ruined knee, he twists his legs under him and makes one last desperate charge directly at the nearest of his attackers.
But he's not sure what could save him now.
b/ OTA
He remembers something he told Markus once, the leader of the android revolution. Statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place. And take place they just did, because Connor is alive. Limping, his optic nerve unstable behind the socket and compensating furiously, but he's alive. He stops in a back door of the police station - he doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, not like this, not with the suspicions he has. But he needs to stash his uniform and he needs what's still in the evidence locker.
"Don't ask," he tells the alarmed-looking patrol cop manning the locker, and that gets him a plastic water bottle filled with glowing thirium.
And he's out on the street, winter, no jacket, in just his button-up shirt and tie, limping, fluorescent blue splatters on his pants and face, LED cycling red, carrying a bottle of something that looks downright radioactive. He knows he's attracting attention, but he doesn't have much option right now.
Hospital. He needs to get to a hospital. A small one.
c/ Closed to Hank
He has scabs. His thirium has clotted around his temple, where the steel toe split his chassis open, trying to hold the wound closed. He actually smiled when he realised it - the mods he got really worked - and apparently his tongue had bled too when he bit it on one of the impacts, because the nurse stitching his head had recoiled from the blue stains on his teeth.
The hospital hadn't known what to do with him until he told them he'd heal like a human. So…they're treating him like a human. They can't fix his knee, but he can already feel his insides slowly, at a glacial pace, fixing themselves. They stitch and bandage it, then give him crutches and strict instructions he already plans to ignore.
Then they ask if he has someone who can take him home. That brings the worst part of this crashing in - Hank's going to have to see him like this. And he has to explain what happened, and his hunch.
He uses a hospital phone to call - his own is gone, and he has a vague memory of dropping it at the scene. It's probably been destroyed by now.
"Hank?"
no subject
Then Hank reaches them, and Connor's strong enough with the other leg to stand and drag Hank to him as well. He's, bizarrely, carrying fluorescent blue flowers, so Connor presses into his side so he doesn't squash them. And Hank is warm and comforting too, and big enough for Connor to lean far more of his weight against. He's not sure why he wants this - he's been injured worse. He was made to take worse than this. He never needed - and would never have received - somebody's comfort for it. The last time he was shot, the technician didn't say a word to him except to tell him to move his arm to test its mobility.
But that's not what his existence is anymore. His life. And even as his mouth twists in misery against Hank's shoulder, he recognises how angry he's been since this happened. And he has the right to be angry.
"Let's just go," is the first thing he tells Hank, detaching himself only to reach for the crutches they gave him, and to lean down and pet Maggie as she whines up at him. "I'll explain back home."
no subject
"I don't know any technicians other than Tim now." Hank admits. "You might have to ask around." But he watches him with that ongoing concern, looking over every inch of him. His blue spattered shirt, his wrapped head, everything horrible that happened. He pushes his flowers into Connor's hand.
"These are for you." And takes over getting the door to help him out. Then as a weak explanation, mutters, "It's tradition."
Maggie stays right on Connor's heels, whining up at him. She can smell the thirium, and like a deviant android her own android mannerisms have been faltering, imitating a dog more than just a protection device with a personable image of sorts. Hank gets outside and one-handedly calls a cab.
"Was it one of ours?" he sounds concerned. He doesn't ask about doubles. Then he would have been dead. He means the police.
no subject
"Thank you." It's awkward and halting, a placeholder of a thing until he can think about it later.
In the cab, he shamelessly tugs Maggie into his lap and, carefully holding up the flowers because they're from Hank and that makes them important, lets her nuzzle into his shoulder - as he leans into Hank's shoulder in turn, presses the good side of his face into the crook between Hank's neck and shoulder.
Odd how something like this - a soft weight on top of him and someone to lean on - makes everything feel a little bit better. A shield from the outside world.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think it was." One of the things he had dismissed in the moment, now vitally important.
But he doesn't want to talk, not about the details, doesn't even want to think about it until he's back in their room.
"You called me 'babe'," he says, like it's only just registered with him. It sort of only just did. The damage he's taken - the aftermatch of the fight, has changed the way his brain's handling data, prioritising defence and external threats while other things, whole processes, go to the bottom of the pile. And even now that it has no external threats to process, it hasn't stopped working, leaving him...odd.
no subject
He can tell Connor's a little overwhelmed, and he offers to take the flowers back while he hugs Connor so he'll be free to move some more.
"Tell me what happened."
He rubs his shoulder and hugs him, and while he sits there he considers, angrily, that this wasn't a fucking body double. There was no giant Head programming someone to do this. It was just an asshole being an asshole, a very organic consistency in the world. A bastard doesn't have to be programmed to be a bastard. That can come through naturally.
But then there's the slightest smile.
"Yeah, I guess I did. Should I not call you that?"
no subject
When he thinks about it later, he'll realise he kind of likes it. But that's later, and this is now, when his brain is stuttering over itself and can't return to anything but...
"They surrounded me," he says, because that much he can say in front of the cab driver, who seems to be staying tactfully silent, but Connor is certain he's listening. "Both ends of the alley. Six total. Some of them were armed, maybe all of them, so I thought the only way I would get away from them alive is if I got in close."
The inflection in his voice is nothing beyond the bare minimum of what makes him sound natural, although he might as well be reading out meeting minutes.
"I got one before they took out my knee, then when I was already down one kicked me in the head."
The cab stops at that moment, he's been speaking so slow and measured, and he jerks upright. Maggie is calm and slow as she gets out of the opening door, and it doesn't even occur to Connor to think about paying the cab driver or to wait for Hank's help as he climbs out too, pulling himself upright with one leg and his arms on the car frame.
no subject
"And you thought you were going to a crime scene?" Hank asks. "No, there wasn't a car, by the way. I called in and asked the evidence guy; figured that if you didn't want someone knowing, he'd be the safest person to check in with. How bad was that head injury?"
Androids can't get concussions, can they? Is this emotional? There's a flat, inhuman and unsettling quality to him. The worst part is that it doesn't feel like he's a machine. It feels like he's traumatized.
He gets the elevator for Maggie and Connor, and when he's in it he holds his face and rubs his hands over his cheeks. "It's okay now. I've got you. I'm not gonna let them have you. You're best thing that's ever happened to me and I will fight like a fuckin' army before I let them take you."
no subject
"Not..." Not so bad, he was about to say, but this is Hank, he can't lie to Hank. "I can fix some of the damage in standby. The upgrades I got should handle the rest."
The damage in his head, annyway. Most of the problem, though, isn't physical, it's not in his equilibrium or his eye or even his brain - not really. It's in the memory of it, replaying over and over in some kind of highlight reel - the moment he realised he was going to die, the moment he realised what they wanted him for, the boot driving into the side of his head and putting him down.
In the elevator, the heat of Hank's hands sinking into his cheek, Hank's voice, that's what somehow starts to drive it home for him. That he's safe now. He got away. People helped him and now he's home. And he doesn't mean their dorm room. He nods shakily and leans in to press his forehead to Hank's, right up until the elevator opens again.
When they're back in the room, he immediately starts to shuck off all of his clothes - they smell of thirium, and it's a good thing he has other uniform pants because these ones are ruined, ripped right through one leg, a tear in the other from pitching to the other knee at some point in the fight.
Wearing nothing but boxer briefs, he sits on the edge of the bed, staring hard at the bandages wrapped tightly around his straightened knee.
"Collins," he finally says, voice still level for now. "He told me there was a drug bust, and asked if I could check the car for traces of Red Ice before it was impounded overnight.
"There wasn't anything in the car." He huffs out a sound that might be a laugh although he's not even sure himself what could possibly be funny. "Not even a battery.
"They already had the alley surrounded. They knew what to do, they knew what I was, and they knew my blood was made of thirium." Maggie has sat herself between his legs at some point and he rubs the softer feeling fur behind her ears. It grounds him a little. "I heard them shouting at each other not to put too many holes in me or I'd bleed it out everywhere."
Because to them, he was-- "I was just a walking cannister of thirium. I don't understand why that's wha-at I keep thinking about." His voice crackles a little on one of the words.
no subject
Hank settles beside Connor's legs, near where Maggie's positioned herself, crouching and looking up at him as he rests his forearms on his thigh, blue eyes looking up at him irritably.
There hadn't been anything to do with a car today. That incredulous laugh? It's painful to watch. That encounter with humans being assholes for the sake of assholes.
"They didn't know you'd had your physiology altered. That your thirium's probably changed as it is." In fact if he hadn't had it altered, he might not be alive. "Jesus..." Hank tips his head forward. Hero cop, huh? Fucking son of a fucking bitch.
"I want you to call off work for a couple of days," for obvious reasons, he figures. "Tell 'em that you took a blow to the head and got a damaged knee, don't elaborate yet. Maybe we can bank off the fact the bastard thinks you won't clearly remember what happened. Collins huh? Shit..." Hank mutters. What a way to be fuckin' slimy. Here he'd been pleased with the number of cops that didn't seem to be on the take. Well, good job fucker on showing how bullshit that is.
"They treated you like a 'thing' again. Like... I hate to fucking say this, but you being a valuable asset to Cyberlife is nicer than how you just got treated. You were spare parts." Hank generally is a good person, but he's a violent person, an aggressive person, and every fucking fiber of that good violent aggressive person just wants him to go find this asshole and chuck him off a roof. Too bad it's important to actually talk to the guy. And, you know, to actually keep his job for the moment.
He buries that righteous rage for a gentler look. "Do you want me to get you anything?
no subject
He stares for a moment. That's right. Why didn't he think about it? That his thirium isn't the same chemical makeup anymore - it's probably useless to make Red Ice with anyway. Somehow, though, he doubts any of those guys would have stood by and let him just explain that even if he'd realised what they wanted before the fight was over.
He leans down so that he can tug Hank in and lean on him, head on his shoulder. From there, it doesn't take more than nudging Maggie out of the way so he can sink to the floor off the bed and press his cheek to Hank's chest.
"I'll take the time off," he mumbles. "Hank, I.."
His eyes are wet as he looks up.
"I'm supposed to be able to work through this," he says. "But I felt…broken. Like the part of me that's built for combat and the part of me that's real, they're not…"
Like they're separate partitions he can't have active at the same time. Which is nonsense. He is one person. But maybe Hank's right, he can't take being treated like an object.
"I think the 'spare parts' thing was even worse than the injuries…" Maybe that's natural. He doesn't feel the pain, after all.
"Nothing." He shakes his head to Hank's question. "Just don't go."
no subject
Hank sits beside him, something warm for him to lean against and be a comfortable support, as he tells him about how his emotions, his realness, make it difficult to fight.
That he actually understands.
"We're told to compartmentalize. Like.... when we went through training, they emphasized to us that when we were on the job, when we had a gun in our hands, we couldn't fuckin' be in the middle of a fight and be a person. We always had to be in the moment. You could do your negotiating while you weren't fighting, but once conflict started, that was it. You just fuckin'... I guess I'm the least human I've ever been when I'm needing to take someone down.
"I don't know if I could grab that part of myself if I was like.. in a fuckin' texas chainsaw massacre situation. And that's what that sounds like. A group of shitty people looking to cannibalize you for someone's entertainment."
Fucking assholes, he'd love to get his hands on them. He doesn't know what's happened to them, though. It's a clumsy effort to relate. He needs to focus on making sure this doesn't happen again.
"Think you could show me what they looked like? The ones that got away, anyway..."
no subject
"That sounds like what happened," he murmurs. "Then when I wanted to be...me, I couldn't. I was ready to fight and I couldn't--...like a machine."
Hank understanding this makes it so much easier to accept that he feels weak with it. He's not broken - at least, Hank doesn't think so, and he's ready to let nothing matter but that.
He touches Hank's hand and opens their connection. A couple of them were badly injured, one ran away, the others staggered off with injuries. Connor remembers all their faces vividly, and though he tries to separate the injuries from the faces, he can't entirely. He can only picture the grim concentration on the face of one of them as he kicked out at Connor's face.
no subject
He winces at all the faces, and while Connor feels fear (fear Hank can feel clenching his own chest) Hank feels anger. These people, every single one of them, did this at their own prompting. No Head interfering. No mind control. They did it on their own to use people.
And Connor's been a victim for so long without even knowing, not being aware. This time he knew. The whole time he was helpless and self-aware. And being aware that you're helpless seems infinitely worse, emotionally, than thinking the state is some sort of fucked up requirement. Especially after you've gotten your head out of that mire.
"I'll help get 'em, alright?"
no subject
He squeezes Hank's hand in his own.
"I have a feeling the ones that are still alive won't be much longer," he says, remembering the moment he told one he could take them in - prison might be the only way to survive after spilling his guts to Connor. "They failed, and one of them talked."
What makes him feel really sick is that that prospect is almost a relief.
"You need to shut this whole thing down," he tells Hank. "That's the only thing that can stop this happening again."
And Connor won't be a damn bit of use anymore, a thought that infuriates him, though he tries not to let that seep through their connection too much.
no subject
He finds that he doesn't feel all that bad for them. Though... well, alright. The woman is horrible. If they're lucky, they'll just be shot. "Then they'll probably turn themselves in." He adds.
But that wave of uselessness from him?
"We'll stop it. Alright? I'll get help. And I'm not gonna let that fucker get near you. You take the time off and stay out of his line of sight."
There's still things they need to do, like get those fucking brains. That he'll need Connor for. But for this? Now that he knows his blood is gold to them? He'll have to guard him like the treasure he knows him to be. (God what an oversweet, disgusting thought.)