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?"
c
He's in the middle of a crime scene investigation, too, a good way across the city. There are sounds behind him, people talking case stuff, a couple of clanging noises.
"He-" then his name happens before he can get the word fully out. "Connor?"
The concern is immediate. Why the hell would Connor be using a phone that isn't his? "Everything alright?"
no subject
"You're at a crime scene." So there's a chance Hank's too busy to come get him. But Connor's not in the habit of martyring himself, so this is Hank's decision. And he wants Hank there. He really wants Hank there.
"I'm in hospital - I'm not badly hurt, just my head and my leg." The important things out of the way, calm and cool. "They stitched the wounds up, I just need help getting home.
"Can they spare you?" He stops...but then adds in a sudden burst, the actual weight of what he's feeling weighing down his voice finally, "And could you bring Maggie?"
no subject
Because he can hear it. Something's happened to Connor, he doesn't know what. He assumes, at first, that it's emotional. Someone's gone. He's seen a double. Something has gone awry. But the fact that Connor hasn't explained why immediately isn't evading his notice.
He turns to one of the higher ranking officers.
"Hey, Jan! I gotta get out of here early. Can you let me know what the morgue comes back with? ...No? Right."
Then back to Connor. "Do you need me to bring anything else?"
no subject
"If they want you there, Hank, I can call a taxi." He heard something about a 'no', but it's still a very half-assed attempt to make Hank think about his job for a second.
And, in case Hank thinks it's about the Head or the doubles issue or any of the most pressing issues they've got to deal with, "I got jumped is all, it can wait until after your shift."
no subject
The ding of an elevator follows. The grind of old machinery. He's already leaving.
"Anything I should know now?" Even on this phone, he means.
no subject
"They got a lucky shot through the knee," he says, "and kicked me in the head. It could have been a lot worse."
But that's all he's willing to say right now. Not because of the Head. Simply because of who could be listening in. And with that it occurs to him that Collins could be right there with Hank, knowing full well he sent Hank's partner to die.
Maybe.
No, not maybe. He knows it in his bones.
"One question - yes or no," he adds suddenly. "Did you have a bust involving a car today? With the case I'm helping with?"
no subject
Hank rants in the lonliness of the elevator, watching the buttons count down as if they're taking entirely too long.
He wrinkles up his nose, wincing forward. "...Bust? No, there wasn't. We had another body turn up this morning. They dragged me out here almost as soon as I got in. I didn't even have a chance to sit down. Nobody told me about anything else."
He picks through what Connor could mean by that, though, resenting that train of thought.
no subject
A technician might have to take a look too, if he can find a good one. But technicians aren't exactly open 24/7, and for now, he just wants the wounds closed, the thirium off him and to be in the safety of their room. And apart from just wanting Hank there, he needs to talk to him about this. There's nobody else he can trust right now. Even the mere fact that Hank's left a crime scene might have already attracted attention, but there's nothing Connor can do about that now.
"OK. Got it." So maybe something happened with a drug bust and nobody told Hank about it. There's still a chance he's wrong. And even if he's not, there could well be a perfectly innocent explanation. "I'll talk to you when you get here, OK?"
Once they've said their goodbyes and hung up, Connor makes his way back to the waiting room where he's already been discharged and sits, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands. It feels oddly heavy. The thirium's evaporated off him, and the bandage around his head hides his LED. To anyone who looks, he's just a tired businessman who's had a bit of an accident.
no subject
Hank puts it away.
He rushes. He grabs a bouquet of glowing blue flowers from a street vendor because they're convenient and he rushes into their building to get Maggie. She can smell the worry on him, hopping to her feet and rushing after Hank as he orders her. She hangs tight against him as they take a cab to that hospital, and he's actually expecting Connor to still be inside a room when he gets there.
Instead, Connor's checked out, sitting in the waiting room and looking miserable. Ignoring protests of the dog (he flashes a badge at one of the interns to get her to hush) he quickly goes over to him, leaning in to hug him with his non-flower-wielding arm. Panic blares off his expression like heat off battered metal.
"What did they fuckin' do to you, Babe? Goddammit..." he mutters.
He could have lost Connor today. He can see that now. He could have had the one shining bright gem in this dingey mine full of universes torn from him, and when he's done worrying he's going to be infuriated. Right now all he can do is cling to him like he needs to know he's still alive.
b
She doesn't hustle up to him, but she does walk straight at him, coming up to his side but not reaching to touch. Hey, someone's fucked up and looking like this? You don't touch or come up quick, if they're still in fight-or-flight, that's how you get a busted nose. She does raise one hand as she approaches, as if to ease her arrival and not startle the guy as she speaks up.
"Hey, you look like shit." Observant as always, she looks him over to try and take note of visible injuries.
a
She sighs to herself and then jumps down off the roof, levitating down with a green mist surrounding her wrists and ankles.
"Seems kinda like uneven odds here," her tone is dry and her posture is surprisingly lax for someone literally dropping into someone else's fight. She doesn't know this guy that's clearly getting his ass kicked. She doesn't know the people doing the ass kicking. But here she is trying to help out because she just can't look away.
One of them fires at her. She holds a hand up, green mist weaving around her fingers, and then the bullets stop. With a wave of her hand she sends the bullets back to the shooter. Another movement of her hands, this time straight up, and two of the men near Connor to lift off the ground only to be slammed back down with the downward pull of her hands.
There's a smirk on her face that might be a bit inappropriate all things considered. Steel toed boots really do make everything more fun.
"I'm trying to be nice here, so I'll offer a suggestion: leave him alone and just walk away." Does she actually think that's going to work? Not really. But she's not looking to make a bigger mess than the one that's already here.
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
Connor looks like he's been on the losing end of a glow-in-the-dark paintball battle, but that's his blood - there's a clear wound along his left temple, so that one temple has a spinning red light and the other a glow-in-the-dark blue gash. At first glance it might just look like paint on his pant leg...but the fabric's torn and he's limping on that leg. It's hard to argue with the assessment, and he twists his mouth in a somewhat wry grimace.
"Yeah. Yeah, I don't feel so hot." He thought of the callback, but didn't think if it was really the appropriate time to say it. It's less 'gallows humour', more 'not quite knowing the right time and place' for these things.
"They got me surrounded." He says, haltingly. "I've fought worse, but I was always...ready for it. Not this time."
no subject
She's noticed the...bleeding? Oozing. The weird shit seeping out of him, she's not sure what exactly to make of it. Back home, blood in colors like this only come from Covvies, but he's not an alien- at least, not one like those back home, and doesn't look like a non-human, so. Who knows...?
"Yea, not really hot at all here, pal. Unless it's a 'hot mess' sort of look you're aiming for." She finally replies, the faintest of a smile given to the call back. Whether it's an appropriate time or not, she doesn't seem to mind. Then again, she's not one for doing things...appropriately in general, so.
"Where'd they go, where'd it happen?" She questions the last bit, glancing around to make sure they weren't in any danger still. Well. Great. Not some weird accident, he was jumped or something. But... "Why'd they go after you?"
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
He's already been in Dualis for more than half of his existence; he should be used to this by now, but his programming still overrides his experience sometimes, and his programming tells him this is all nonsense.
But he has learned to ignore his programming. His attackers see her too, and as one of them immediately raises their weapon, Connor calls, "Watch out--"
(Fluorescent blue thirium, his blood, peppers the ground; he's bitten his tongue.)
But he needn't have bothered. He doesn't see what happens - maybe later he can review the footage - but the bullets are going towards her...and then hit the shooter instead. They're wearing all black that hides everything from facial features to figure, and though Connor doesn't see blood, they buckle to their knees, then onto their front.
Another second, and two more of them rise into the air and slam back down with matching dull thuds on the asphalt. The clang of metal - a gun, one of those boots that might have just dented Connor's skull? Hard to say - has barely faded when the sound of running footsteps echoes from the alleyway nearby; one of the group has lost their nerve.
"Hey-- Hey!" one of the two men still there and still standing yells after them. "Fucking--"
"Yeah? I got a suggestion for you," the other addresses the woman, approaching one of his faintly stirring comrades and shoving at him with his foot. Even to Connor, who's dropped back to one knee and trying to regroup, it sounds like bluster. Bravado. He's afraid. Even as he opens his jacket and pulls out some kind of alien gun the size of his forearm, he's afraid. "Fuck off and mind your own business. We're just getting back what we're owed."
Connor's not so out of it that he doesn't immediately stare at the guy in utter confusion. But then he glances up, at his totally unexpected backup - she can defend herself even from bullets, but against anything? It would, after all, be safer for her to leave in case she gets hurt.
But he hopes to whatever god or ra9 or whatever the hell exists out there that she doesn't.
no subject
The gun isn't something she recognizes. That's a problem. Lorna's a confident woman. Borders on cocky sometimes actually. Still, she's not in a rush to make a potentially deadly mistake. If she doesn't immediately recognize the weapon that means she can't guarantee what it'll fire. It's the kind of fast risk assessment that comes from being hunted. When she's in a clear state of mind she knows how to make the choice that will result in the safest outcome.
Too bad safest outcome doesn't necessarily mean least destructive outcome. She takes a quick glance around, a few seconds to see what options she has. The guy lifts the weapon, noticeably shaking while doing so, and tries to give her the most menacing expression he can. Not that impressive of a look if someone were to ask her to rate it.
"Leave now. Final warning." There's a dumpster nearby. Perks of being hidden off in a side street. The street's narrow. Another perk.
"Never been good at listening to warnings." Mist dances around her fingers again and then she yanks her hands towards herself with a concentrated effort. At first he doesn't notice what she's done. It all happens too fast. The dumpster comes rushing towards him, it slams into him, pushing him just as he fires the weapon, it grazes her arm (nothing serious, but enough to sting) and then crushing him into the nearby wall. Well, hopefully there wasn't too much force behind that.
no subject
"Hot mess sounds a lot more accurate," he says dryly, never having heard the phrase before. He doesn't feel pain, he's said that to people before, and he doesn't in the way humans seem to. But he knows when something feels bad, when he doesn't want to feel it anymore, and that's where he's at right now.
"West end, one of the rundown areas. They're not an issue anymore." And, as he realises that implies he contributed a lot more than he actually did to that. "I had help, somebody found us."
And he reaches up to his temple to swipe some of the thirium off his skin, holding it up to her. "Thirium three-ten. It's my blood, but it's the main ingredient in a drug that's pretty close to cocaine. Looks like somebody realised I'm carrying it around."
'Realised'. They were told. And he can't help the fury making his voice rough as he says it.
no subject
Her thoughts are interrupted as he continues, looking back to his blood coated hand and unable to stop herself from reaching her free hand out to poke the mess.
"Awesome, drug vampires jumping people, that's what we need now." On top of everything going on? Really? Good fucking god. A distractible part of her mind wonders if they can be called vampires, since his blood is apparently...Thirium whatever.
South has a million and one questions about his blood, about why it's not real or organic red stuff like her's, how they'd known to use it for drugs in general or that he had it in him- and a hundred other things. But, well. The boy's not doing so hot, and she's mildly fond of him, and likes Hank a good bit, so, his safety and health overpowers her curiosity for the moment.
"Hey, why don't we get you sat down, like, out of the open in case they have buddies who aren't done milking you, see how bad shit is?" She asks even as she already starts trying to nudge him along to do just that. Out of the open, somewhere at least a little safer feeling, maybe try to stabilize his leg or other injuries. Reassess the damage and mobility and make a plan of action from there.
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?"
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He's no more threat to anybody standing here than he was kneeling. In fact, at least kneeling had his good leg curled up beneath him - more momentum to take off from if he needed. But in place of rage - because anger never sticks around very long for Connor, and he's been distracted right out of it - there's clarity right now. If he's to die, he'll do it standing up.
But then a dumpster comes flying out of nowhere just as the terrified and very stupid human tries to shoot, and the sound as that dumpster hits the wall is that of metal on flesh on brick - not a very nice one, but not so bad that someone will have to hose him off the sidewalk.
He cares more about that unknown someone, honestly.
"If you wanted money..." He might actually have given it before things got this far. Or at least, he would have offered and hoped to see an opening.
Forget that - no. He steps forward to get the remaining two's attention, dragging one leg.
"No, you didn't want money." He kneels down in front of the one who's risen to his knees - or rather, crashes down clumsily - and lifts the man's downturned head with a fist in his jacket, his voice strong and clear. "Why me? Or why here?"
This particular man's companion manages to get to his feet, but all he does is lift his hands in a universal symbol of 'I come in peace' - except all he's doing is leaving in peace, staggering off into the adjoining alleyway and out of sight.
The guy Connor's got hold of doesn't look at Connor. He's not afraid of Connor. He's looking past Connor's shoulder, where he knows that woman must still be floating. Maybe she does something, says something Connor's too focused to pay attention to. Maybe that's why the guy finally says, a little dazedly, "That shit," and nods at Connor's...left temple. Connor lifts his free hand to touch, and it comes away wet. Blue.
"We had two fucking gallons of it - do you know how much that's worth?"
"About two million duos, if you're using the most efficient method to synthesise the Red Ice and the street value is what I think it is," Connor responds immediately, not even realising in the moment that the question was entirely rhetorical. But he goes on, the answer dawning on him, "But you don't have those two gallons anymore, because they're in police lock-up."
He pushes the man away from him and stands. He feels... He feels something, and it's not good, it's ugly and glutinous inside him.
"If you don't want them to kill you, let me take you in," he says because he has to say it, but the tone of his voice is ugly too, acidic, like it should sear his throat to speak with it.
"Fuck you," the guy spits - literally spits blood and a tooth to the ground, then staggers up and, with one last baleful look at Connor's saviour, limps away.
Connor's silent until the sound of footsteps withdraw, tense, expecting at any second that one of those people is going to change their minds and finish him off. But that's an irrational thought. Sometimes he likes having those, but right now he doesn't.
"Are you OK?" he asks, without turning around. It's odd how small his voice sounds now, overwhelmed by the dark silence of the alley without the commotion that was filling it.
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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.
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"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."
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Intimidation is something she's good at. A tiny part of her always gets a tiny kick out of it. Lorna's not a large woman. She's more lithe than muscular and her bright green hair doesn't exactly scream threatening. Still, she carries herself with confidence and she knows how to play the game. Using her powers she pulls out a small military knife that she usually keeps on the strap of her black pants and casually just starts flipping it up and down with her powers. Green mist swirls around the blade as it goes up and down while she watches to see if the man will offer Connor the information he's looking for freely. If he doesn't she's more than prepared to see how close she could get the knife before she stops it.
Luckily the guy does cough up the information. Unluckily for him the information actually just annoys her more. Had he seriously just suggested the attack was just over someone's blood to make...drugs? Is it really as stupid as that? She blinks as she watches the guy spit and then stagger off and a boiling bit of anger bubbles inside. It doesn't matter to her that the blood is blue, at least not right now. All that matters to her is how fucked up it seems to jump someone as a group in a side street over nothing. Humans really were shit no matter where they were.
With a flick of her writs she sends the knife out towards the guy as he withdraws, stopping it just shy of his back. It's not worth it. The decision is last minute but it's one that comes with her not being as emotionally involved. She moves a finger to bring the knife back and then tucks it back into the strap on her pants. Nobody needs to be killed today, though a part of her thinks someone will probably end up regretting having just let them go.
"Pretty sure I should be asking you that," she gives him a wry smirk as she shrugs a shoulder. "Don't worry about me, I've had a lot worse. Basically a paper-cut." Bleeding a bit more than a paper-cut but it's not that bad.
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It takes a second for what she's saying to filter through the constant threat assessment's his head keeps trying to run. Get him out of the street, away from anybody who could see him, see his thirium bleeding out of him, see it on her and think her blood's made of it too, get him to safety, assess the damage. It makes sense, but...
"Are you sure?" he asks, voice quiet but as urgent as if the pair of them are in danger right that very moment. "If they come back and you're with me, you'll be in danger too." He gestures at her hand. "Especially if they think you might have thirium blood, too."
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"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't already sure." She replies, fixing him with a hard look, "They can try, if they're stupid enough. I almost wish they would so I could bust their knees and tear their jaws off their faces."
Because, again, she likes and tentatively, cautiously trusts Hank. At least, more than she trusts anyone else here. Hank's a good guy, seems to be trying to do good here. And Connor's pretty, well...sweet? He's kind. Sure, she doesn't have a whole lot of time spent with him personally, but with what she has experienced with him so far, and with how the boss talks about him and likes him and trusts him? She considers him to be on her team. Not exactly a friend-friend, not yet. But he's someone she has a growing bud of fondness for, and would care if he blinked out of this place or died.
But he's part of Hank's team, like she is, so at the absolute very least he's a teammate, if nothing else. If she finds whoever is trying to fuck him up and steal his fancy drug-blood, she's going to crack some skulls. Just like with the rookies back home, she might be a colossal asshole to them, pick on them, is unnecessarily mean to them- but if anyone outside the team tries to even give them an ugly look? Bones would be broken.
"C'mon bud, lets get you moving." South continues as she reaches to try and catch his wrist in an attempt to haul his arm over her shoulders, planning to wrap her arm around his back and hold the wrist of the arm around her shoulders to help him limp along, "Don't be afraid to put your weight on me, I gotcha."
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"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.
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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?
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"I…" In that second, he feels truly like he's been ripped in half. The emotional, thinking part of him, the part of him that's horrified and sickened by everything from the weakness in his leg to the smell of thirium to the worthless, slimy feeling sticking up his thirium pump, blocking his circulation. The machine side of him, the part that stops him losing his composure then and there, the part that preconstructed the fight and kept him moving and fighting and standing when he was sure he was about to die.
He always thought they were one and the same. But right now they don't feel like it at all.
Machine Connor has dignity. Machine Connor is built to handle a crisis.
But he's just Connor.
No, that's not how it works.
"Thank you," he manages, voice sounding so distant it could be someone else's entirely. "I'm…I'm lucky you were here."
And now he turns, looking up at the woman wreathed in green fog. It's true, she doesn't look injured at all, and the weight of relief is almost crushing.
"There's almost a gallon and a half of thirium in my body," he says, trying to… He doesn't know. Make sense of things? They don't need to make sense.
But they do.
"I was just a spare container," and on the last words, an acidic feeling rises in his throat, corrupting the sounds.
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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."
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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..."
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His expression twitches into something like a smile - of course she'd say that, why did he expect anything different - but that puts an odd sort of pressure on his left temple where the thirium is congealing even as some of it starts to evaporate.
"Thanks." There's genuine relief in his voice: he might have wanted to make sure she was OK with it, but he didn't want her to leave, either. He doesn't have to feel guilty. Not having to might not stop him feeling guilty anyway, but still. He can focus on walking, and staying upright in general.
He willingly slings an arm over South's shoulders - Connor's built of less dense stuff than a human, making him lighter than he looks for someone his height - and leans some of his weight into hers to help him walk.
"I need to get to a clinic," he says, voice strained. "A small one. I need to stay out of sight for now."
As much as South is willing to fight - and he truly appreciates that - Connor himself is worse than useless right now. He doesn't want to be in the open.
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"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.
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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?"
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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.
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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.)
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"Couldn't just look away," which is the truth. It's simple, but she's never been able to turn away from a situation that looks like an underdog situation. She rolls her shoulders as she lands completely on the ground and checks him over. He definitely doesn't look like he's doing that well.
"Not sure what thirium is," she admits with a half shrug. But she gets the impression he's not really able to focus on everything that just happened. Not that she can blame him after all that.
"So, they were just after you for that? For something in your body?" That just makes the entire thing even more fucked. "Look...should you get to a doctor or...." something else? She's not really sure what to ask here.