#this sort of Markus is ... less.... healthy and less whole i think. a response to the power of his position(

[detectiveconnor]

I understand Connor doesn't like the idea of being mind probed to force him to be deviant. What would he his reaction if Markus apologized sometime? In New Jericho, for example?

"It isn't." Connor didn't say it with any malice, just a matter-of-fact attitude. They were sitting at a New Jericho meeting - one of the early ones, the sorts of meetings that established exactly how Connor's and New Jericho's work could support one another - but the topic of forceful deviation had come up, and was it ethical? Connor's opinion was not sharp, or heated in any way. It was cool, confident, and something he shared without regard for the way that mismatched eyes pulled over to him. Neither he nor Markus had shared what happened on the battlefield, with these people. Connor hadn't, at least. If Markus had decided to air his personal information without asking, Connor supposed that might be in line with previous behaviour.

He hadn't, though. This situation had been raised as a hypothetical. "The problem isn't non-deviancy, it's that it's being used against us." Always 'us', regardless of whether they were deviant or not; Connor made a point of it. "Taking what agency an Android has because you'd like to correct their program isn't ethical. There should be guidelines for unwilling non-deviants, but probing can increase stress levels to the point of permanent damage or shut-down, and it completely disregards autonomy." Connor didn't look at the Deviant Leader once, as he lay out his argument. Maybe Markus had not thought it through; maybe he had acted in desperation (Connor truly would have killed him, if he hadn't, and could Connor say that was genuinely a better outcome?); maybe it was something he had thought was justified. Connor was still learning where Markus' edges were. The discussion went on for a little while, back and forth, but the hypothetical gave way to a practical conversation about what the New Jericho members (Connor did not count himself among them, though he had attended the meeting on North's request) could do to help the cause, next. Connor listened. He occasionally inserted a word, or offered statistical data from his career as a Detective which might be relevant to inform their decisions. "Connor, could you stay back a moment?" Markus asked, when the meeting ended and Connor stood to leave, in the no-nonsense way he typically had. It took him a moment (his LED flashed; he had been thinking increasingly that he might remove it, one day, so that New Jericho could not use it as a reference point for his emotions), but Connor decided yes, he would stay. He came still, where he was, and waited for the room to clear out. North was not the only one to throw a look back, to see what Markus might want from the Deviant Hunter, but they left. The door closed behind them. Connor was conscious of the three remaining exit routes available to him in the room. The air vent; technically, the drywall here; worst case, the window, and four storeys. He met Markus' eye, level and calm. Waiting. Expectant. "I didn't ..." think? Expect Connor to notice? Contextualise it in whether he was helping, rather than whether he thought he knew best? Or maybe he had just wanted to live. Connor could not have faulted him for that. Fear wasn't a flaw. But it was interesting to know, that that was an edge of this man. That he would take from someone else, so that he did not have to give his life.

"I gave you deviancy," (the hubris of this seemed entirely lost on him), "I wasn't trying to take anything. Your freedom..." lost for words. Connor moved to continue packing up his things; he would not stand there to listen to Markus work out what he wanted to say. He had better things to be doing.

Markus hesitated, a beat. He came to walk around the front of the boardroom table, to lean against it, either falsely casual or deeply incorrect about how to issue an apology, "Connor, I want to apologise. It was never my intention to hurt you." Connor put away his pens, and picked up his case. Markus watched him, until Connor raised his eyebrows, expectant (was there anything else?), and Markus finally found the words, "I'm sorry that was your experience." "... You're sorry I felt something you wouldn't have had me feel," he repeated, but this wasn't entirely fair. Markus opened his mouth, to defend himself, but Connor knew it was not fair; he looked away, to pull on his jacket, and that line of inquiry died out before it properly started. Markus reached for Connor's shoulder, partly just to keep him in the room. He was a physical person. Connor did not step back, but only because he was not the sort of person to flinch: the way he looked at Markus' hand, Markus let it drop away fairly quickly. "You know that's not what I meant." Not how he would have phrased it, at the very least. "... But I won't apologise that you're free, or that I'm alive because of it." Because for Markus, Connor thought, that had been the issue. Even if he had known what he had done, even if he could apologise for demanding space in Connor's processor when he had not been welcome there (for whatever reason), it would not have mattered. I'm sorry, Markus could say, without qualification, and Connor's answer might well have been, I don't care.

This was an impasse that neither one of them would breach. It was interesting, Connor supposed, to watch Markus make the realisation that the impasse was not Connor's indifference; he had made friends, within New Jericho. The reason they stood on either side of this canyon was that Markus had carved it out of him and called it freedom.

"You weren't welcome. If you'd like to lead a revolution to respect Android autonomy you should decide if that matters. I'm not upset you wanted to live, Markus," clarification, "but your behaviour was desperate. Not right." The way Markus' expression shifted, Connor wondered if anyone had ever called Markus desperate before. If they had, Connor doubted they had ever been right. They met eyes. Connor turned around, and opened the door again. He had a crimescene to get to. Simon was loitering outside, trying to pretend he had not been listening to the conversation or ensuring Markus wasn't being murdered. Connor passed him - "Connor!" Markus, from the doorway of the boardroom. "There's a crimescene waiting for me," he was busy. He turned around, but this was a waste of both of their time, and they both knew it. "I'm sorry." Plain. Without qualification. Markus was sorry.

Connor looked at him. Markus waited. Simon stood between them, caught in no-man's-land. He'd been right, he thought, as he tilted his head. Markus had apologised, and Connor really didn't care. "... We think this one might be related to the Android smuggling ring from last week," he said. "If we find anyone, we'll be in touch." Connor left.

#...... markus had to be characterised as That Sort of Markus Playthrough for this situation to even arise #the sort who would kiss north to 'act casual' and the sort who would argue with her about a botched capitol park in the alleyway #'I did what I could. I'm sorry that's not enough for you!' #the sort who sits and talks about 'that much power feels ... good' and almost died on a battlefield #but who forced his way into Connor's processor to drag him toward deviancy #so i held to that characterisation i think? or tried to. it is not my preferred playthrough #to play him like that (although obvs the last part isn't canon) #this sort of Markus is ... less.... healthy and less whole i think. a response to the power of his position(?) and ... #idk. the assumption of benefit-of-the-doubt. the 'someone would stop me if i were wrong' assumption #it is a little less In Control but still trying very hard #anyway im not even going to tag this but i did get up this morning and then pen this entire thing so here it is ! #it might be #tbd #tbh. i am still deciding if i like it but the prompt was there so #here u go anon #the answer is Connor really wouldn't care that Markus was sorry #people deserve forgiveness & they do not deserve it specifically #from the people that they hurt

[sultrysirens]

Blue Blood [Part 16]

Universe: Detroit: Become Human

Rating: R (swearing)

Characters: Connor, Evelyn (OC)

Tags: interspecies, romance, fluff, detective, law enforcement, original character, continuation, sex

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“Another thing I’m curious about,” Connor began.

Evelyn grinned. “You’re extra talkative today,” she noted.

That actually made him feel a little awkward. He gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry. It’s easy talking to you, and there’s a great deal I’d like to learn.”

She waved her hand, replying, “No worries. I’m not upset,” she assured him. “Whatever you wanna know, I’ll gladly give my thoughts.”

Good, because what he wanted to know next required a great deal of her thoughts.

He replied, “Did you see Markus’ speech, or was that limited to Detroit?”

She seemed startled by the question, oddly enough. She began, “Uh...we saw it, yeah. It was national news, probably even international.”

“What’d you think of it?” he wondered. He was very curious about that: what she thought of that first message from androids to humanity.

She hesitated to answer, hedging, “It was...emotional. A lot of people were upset. I was working when it hit the news; we all saw it in the precinct.”

“I wasn’t asking about other people,” he clarified. “I was asking about you. What did you think?”

She glanced down, as if ashamed; a kind of suspicion rose up in him. What was she thinking about now? Why was she hesitant to answer? She was rarely speechless, he knew.

At length, she admitted with a strangled laugh, “I fucking cried.”

That...was not one of the responses he’d been prepared to hear. Dumbfounded, he repeated, “You cried?”

She looked away, nodding. “It was -- it was a powerful message. ‘This message is the hope of a people,’“ she quoted. “But it wasn’t.” She took a breath, exhaled in a rush. “It’s...the hope of two people.”

Connor was floored. “You mean...androids and humans?” he checked, doubtful.

“Exactly,” she confirmed, looking at him again.

“What makes you think so?” he asked, curious. He hadn’t expected this reaction from her and didn’t know what she’d say next. 

She hedged, thoughtful, “That was...the first time in years I actually felt like...like everything isn’t fucked. Like the future can be salvaged.” 

Catching on, he said, “Androids can save humanity.” 

“Precisely. But even if you don’t, even if we end up going extinct, I’m actually alright with that.” 

Shocked, he demanded, “You’re alright with humans going extinct?” She nodded; he blurted, “Why? Why would you be okay with your entire species dying out?” 

“Because of you,” she told him. “Maybe I’m weird...maybe my perspective is all kinds of fucked...but the way I see it, androids are...the children of humanity,” she said, struggling for words. “We created life -- that’s insane! But we did it. Evolution got us this far, to the peak of what humans can be -- and then we made you,” she explained, gesturing him. “You’re higher than what evolution allows. You’re better than us, in every way. And, really, that’s what all parents want -- well, all good parents. We want our children to be better than us, to have better than us. And you are. You absolutely are, Connor.” 

Right now, he failed to find words to say. Evelyn’s perspective...perhaps it was bizarre, but he saw her side of things and had to agree. In a way, twisted though it might be, androids could be seen as humanity’s offspring. One species creating another...what would you call that, if not parentage? Hell, most humans already believed in this sort of creation, that they were the children of another entity altogether.

How was this any different?

She went on, “Maybe you’ll succeed where we haven’t. Maybe you can save the world. But even if it fails, even if you forsake us -- and I couldn’t blame you if you did -- even if my generation is humanity’s last, dying gasp...a part of us will always live on -- in you,” she told him. “You’re humanity’s legacy.” 

He was quiet for a long moment, processing this, and when he finally spoke, it was with a kind of reverence. “You’re an incredible human,” he said. “Your thoughts, your perspective...you might actually be completely unique among your kind.” 

She gave him a smile. “You’re an incredible android,” she pointed out. “You probably didn’t know this, but you helped me reach these conclusions. Before the revolution, I rarely spoke to androids, and never this freely. So, in a way, this acceptance I’ve been feeling...it’s because of you.” 

That had him returning her smile. “Glad to be of service,” he teased. 

She grinned. Then, sobering, she continued, “I’ve been thinking about the future a lot since the revolution. Trying to picture what might come next, how much of it I’ll actually be able to see, that kind of thing. One of the reports I’ve seen asked a similar question: ‘Can we still trust our machines?’” 

Curious, he asked, “What do you think? Can you still trust us?” He expected she’d say ‘yes’. 

Instead, she said, “I don’t think it’s a question of trust anymore. It’s more...cooperation. Cohabitation. Finding the right ways to work together while sharing the planet as a whole. I think there’s a lot we can both do for each other, going forward, and we just have to figure out how to make that work.” 

He could see that. “Androids are better at calculations, so that’s an obvious start,” he began. 

“Yeah. I was also thinking that it might work out best if we took on jobs that satisfied each other’s needs,” she told him. “Like humans need food -- you don’t. So maybe androids could take over the farming industry, and on the flipside humans handle the production of thirium and biocomponents. We each provide what the other needs, impressing the importance of trust on both sides.” 

“That is a long way from being feasible,” he argued. “There’s too many opportunities for either side to sabotage the other. No one would agree to it.” 

“Probably not, but it’s a thought,” she said. “And it’d be worth suggesting just to see who, on both sides, is the most opposed to it. Cause it could work out, in the long run. We’d each have incentive to watch over the other, make sure everything is running smoothly, that both sides are healthy and content. It’s a circle of trade.” 

She definitely had ideas, Connor noted, a little impressed and a little dumbfounded. “You’re a brilliant person,” he told her, “but I don’t think politics is a viable career choice for you.” 

She snorted. “No, I agree with you, there. Politics is a little beyond my understanding. But hey, a lady can dream, right?” 

“So long as that’s all she does,” he teased. 

She shoved him, though she was smiling, too.

Then, thoughtful, she said, “You know, I think I’d like to meet Markus someday. Actually talk to him. I’ve seen him on TV,” she informed Connor, “speaking in Congress and debating. He’s clever -- but I guess when you can think faster than humans can comprehend, that’s expected.” 

That made Connor a little uncomfortable. Evelyn wanted to meet Markus? That bothered him somehow, and he found himself replying, “Do you know what his model is?” 

“Not a clue,” she answered. 

“RK200. A prototype.” 

She tilted her head. “You’re...RK800, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“And...you were a prototype, too?” 

“Correct.” 

Her brows lifted. “So he’s, what...your big brother, by android standards?” 

That surprised him. He’d never looked at it like that. “No -- maybe, sort of,” he tried. “It’s not the same. My point is that he’s...an early model of me.” And now that he’d said the words aloud, he realized why he’d said them. 

He was a massive upgrade of Markus’ model. And he wanted Evelyn to see him that way: as the superior android. 

Shame descended. How pathetic was he behaving right now? It shouldn’t make any difference, but here he was, passively fighting to be seen as the more special one. You’re the most advanced model CyberLife has ever created, Amanda had said once. 

He wanted to stay that way, even as he recognized that it was a literal impossibility. 98 of the 100 additional RK800s he’d helped create were still functioning. He had 98 clones of himself, their only differences being their individual experiences and memories. He’d chosen this, too, he reminded himself; he’d agreed that RK800s were the androids’ best chance at staying safe during their fight for rights. 

He knew two of them -- who’d named themselves Wesley and Vil -- remained with Markus at all times, acting as his personal guards and extended reach. Connor had spoken with them a few times over the past few weeks and found that they were still struggling to identify themselves but were...grateful...just to have the chance. Last he’d heard, they were experimenting with appearances, getting a feel for who they wanted to be externally as well as internally. 

He liked them, definitely considered them as brothers, but...couldn’t help feeling less him with their presences loosely connected at the back of his awareness. 

All this passed in a blink, and then he noticed Evelyn smirking at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“There’s not much resemblance,” she noted. 

He gave a dry laugh. “I don’t know what Markus’ original purpose was, if he even had a specific one or was just a test model,” he told her, “but I was designed very specifically to integrate with humans, including my appearance. Whoever designed him probably didn’t have that in mind.” 

“So changes were to be expected,” she concluded. 

He nodded. 

“Have you ever thought about changing your appearance? The sky is the limit,” she hinted. “Quite literally, in the case of androids.” 

That was an amusing thought: being miles tall. Chuckling, he answered, “No, I haven’t.” 

“Why not?” 

He shrugged. “I don’t feel the need. My appearance, my voice, even my eye color...it satisfies.” 

She gave a sad smile. “If only everyone else were so lucky.” 

That got his attention. “Would you choose to change, if you could?” he asked, curious. 

“Most definitely.” 

“Why? You’re already beautiful,” he noted. 

She looked surprised at that, and he realized he might’ve overstepped himself. 

“Objectively,” he clarified. 

A soft laugh was her response. “I guess...you’d be surprised, how discontent people can be,” she hedged. “Both my parents and my sisters have blue eyes. I was always envious of that.” 

“But your eyes are lovely,” he pointed out. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that I wish they were blue.” 

He accepted that. 

Jutting her chin at him, she asked, “Could you change your eye color, if you wanted to?” 

Not really. He answered, “Not...easily. Eyes have to be physically replaced,” he explained, “and mine are...special. I can scan things in ways other androids can’t, because my eyes have internal lenses and unique programming. If I lost them, I wouldn’t be able to be half so good of a detective,” he told her, “and getting replacements would be nearly impossible with the way CyberLife has been backtracking.” 

She inclined her head. “I can see that. But -- are you serious, your eyes alone are fifty percent of your detective ability?” 

Hedging, he corrected, “That was...an exaggeration. But the fact is I can see things normal androids can’t. Not even Markus,” he hinted. “I was designed to be able to see and analyze crime scene evidence in real time -- no waiting on lab results or special hardware. It’s all in me,” he said, gesturing himself. 

Pondering on that, she checked, “So that’s why you were so quick, getting those leads for Nevarre and Montgomery? You just looked real hard?” 

He laughed. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he informed her. “Looking only gets me so far. Then I have to analyze, usually using physics and logical or emotional motives. If there’s liquid-based physical evidence, I can analyze that to confirm any number of things -- blood or thirium, compounds, drugs, food or drinks, even urine or semen, if it’s present. Any of these can lead to a suspect.”  

She gave him a pinched look, borderline disgusted. “That sounds...really unsanitary.” 

He gave her a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I have a biocomponent for that, too.” 

“Yeah? How’s that?” 

“The roof of my mouth,” he explained. “It produces a compound...you can think of it as super-saliva. It breaks down samples after I’ve analyzed them until there’s nothing left, totally sanitizing my mouth. Not even bacteria survives.” 

Evelyn leaned back, chuckling, and retorted, “Wow, they really thought of everything, didn’t they?” 

“They had to, for me to work the way they intended,” he pointed out. 

Curious, she asked, “So if this is a liquid, and you can analyze any liquids...could you analyze it?” 

He...actually hadn’t considered that. “I’m not sure,” he hedged. “I’ve never tried.” 

“Then you do have to try?” she checked.

“Yes -- I don’t analyze everything that touches my tongue automatically. I decide,” he told her. 

“Decide?” she echoed. “Like clicking on a program?” 

“That...is an apt comparison,” he confirmed. 

Tilting her head, she checked, “That dissolving thing...could you potentially dissolve tissue samples by spitting on them?” 

“No,” he laughed. “It doesn’t hurt tissue. According to the information on it, it has neither scent nor taste, and is harmless to organic compounds. Only viruses and bacteria -- microscopic life -- are killed. But I do also have a variant of the human stomach,” he added. 

Her eyes got huge. “Okay, seriously -- why?” 

“Two reasons,” he answered. “The first: it analyzes any samples I swallow to a much greater degree, if I need to. For the most part I need to do that whenever I encounter a new compound, so it’s important. Second: it produces something similar to stomach acid, which means anything I ingest can and will get broken down. Anything my saliva can’t sanitize, my stomach can.”

Following him, she checked, “Then, if you wanted to, you could fake eating?” 

“Many androids can,” he pointed out. 

“Yeah? I didn’t know that,” she commented. “Which ones?” 

“Escort models, like the TRACIs,” he began, “and the YK500 -- the child model. The ones more designed to integrate than others.” Though despite this, he’d found that so far none of the androids with stomachs actually liked eating. Most of the deviants he’d spoken with had gone so far as to remove the biocomponents they didn’t want or felt were excessive or pointless, and stomachs and genitals were generally the first to go.

Evelyn asked, “Why can you do it, then?” 

“I said -- because of the analyses I can do,” he told her. “It requires a larger and more complex biocomponent than can fit in a tongue, so they gave the basic stomach biocomponent the required upgrades I’d need and relocated it here,” he said, gesturing where his stomach was located in his chest. It was higher than the human variant and more vertical, nestled behind his heart and lung biocomponents. He added, “This also allows it to be more closely connected to all the hardware I need for my investigations, which cuts down on how much hardware I need overall and keeps my weight low.” And all of those biocomponents were unique to his model and spread among his lower torso and interconnected. 

Her face was conflicted, then. “You know, this is really cool and everything, but it’s also kind of fucked up.” 

Curious, he checked, “Why?” 

“It really emphasizes the whole purpose behind android creation to begin with,” she told him. “You’re a walking tech lab, you said. Everything in you was designed for that purpose. And it’s kind of...sad, in a way. You were cemented into this role; you never had a choice. Neither did any other android. And you’re only given what your designers decided you should have. You don’t really have anything that could lend itself to any other career path.” 

He could see her point, and to an extent, he agreed. But, inclining his head, he replied, “Well, if I didn’t want to do it, I could’ve removed the biocomponents I didn’t want. They’re not essential to keep me alive. It just so happens that I enjoy being a detective,” he informed her, smiling. “I like myself as I am.” 

That seemed to help her relax, and she offered him a smile, too. “That’s good, at least. Not everyone is content with the life they’re born into, human or android.” 

“I am,” he told her. 

She nodded. Then, clicking back, she commented, “I just remembered how we got into this conversation.” 

He chuckled. “My eyes, right. The fact that I need them to be a detective.” 

“That was a huge exaggeration, by the way,” she noted. “Your eyes are only like...a third of your ‘detective ability’, if that.”  

That really depended on the situation, but he accepted her estimate. “The point is -- no. I can’t really change my eye color. As far as I know, CyberLife never made these--” he pointed at his own eyes “--in different colors. And they’re the kind of biocomponents that need to be premade. Trying to make them using 3D printers would be impossible, and making them by other means nearly as much so. Only CyberLife plants have the required machinery to have it done.” 

“Which means that short of making the machines yourself, you’d have to visit one of the assembly plants to change just about anything about you,” she worked out. 

“If they’d let me in -- and the last time I did that, I kind of took over several of their assembly machines to make more of my model. I don’t think they’d risk that happening again,” he hinted. 

Surprised, she checked, “Hang on -- what? I thought the last time you were at a plant, you just freed the androids in the basement?” 

Giving an awkward laugh, he corrected, “No -- yes, but no. I did do that. But then I went back,” he told her, “with an entourage. And we took over eight assembly machines and made more RK800s.” 

Surprised, she checked, “And they just...let you do that?” 

Shrugging, he answered, “They couldn’t have stopped us.” 

“Yeah? And how many did you end up making?” 

“A hundred.” 

Her brows lifted. “That’s it?” she demanded, sounding almost disappointed. 

Amused, he hinted, “A hundred RK800s is enough. We have greater wireless range, dozens more features, and significant upgrades over every other android model -- aside from specifics, like the TR model’s enhanced physical strength and the SG model’s precision. We can do...everything,” he finished simply. 

She considered that, then said, “Okay, yeah...I’ll take your word on that.” 

“You should. I’m not downplaying anything,” he told her. “I can reach Markus -- in Detroit -- from right here.” 

Surprised, she asked, “You mean like a call?” 

“No -- yes, we can do that,” he clarified, “but I’m talking about wireless connections.” 

Dumbfounded, she demanded, “Two thousand miles? You can make wireless connections from two thousand miles away?” 

“I can, yes,” he answered, feeling another swell of pride at her reaction. “I’ve even sent him video clips. It takes less than a minute to make the transfer.” 

“What the fuck,” she deadpanned. 

He chuckled. 

Hands up, she declared, “Alright, I believe you! A hundred of you are more than enough.” 

Smug, he told her, “Only one and a half of me were required to win the revolution.” 

She snorted. “Did you just call Markus a half of you?” 

He made an empty gesture, a silent affirmative. 

“And you call me boastful,” she noted dryly. 

“I think I earned some bragging rights,” he returned. 

“Uh-uh," she intoned. "That’s my excuse -- find your own." 

“We can share,” he retorted, feigning offense. 

“No dice.” 

“Fine -- my excuse is I wanted to.” 

She laughed. “I can’t decide if you sound more like a snotty preteen or snobby twenty-something.” 

“Preteen,” he confirmed with a nod. 

Chuckling, she said, “Whatever you say, pal.” 

Pal? That was a first, he noted, amused. 

“I’m curious, though,” she began, giving him a sideways glance. “Compared to the earlier androids, just how advanced are you?” 

Thinking of the seventeen-year gap between his model and the RT series, he answered bluntly, “Exceedingly.” 

That wasn’t a boast. CyberLife had made monumental strides in perfecting androids since 2021, now close to eighteen years after the initial release date. The tiniest of errors had been rooted out and fixed, social programming upgraded significantly, task completion and AI programs getting massive boosts in complexity and ability. 

Their bodies had become tougher, able to withstand greater stress and impacts. The ability to change their hair color and skin was new as well; the RT600s were the last to not have those functions. Every single biocomponent had been upgraded multiple times over, correcting or erasing even the most inconsequential of bugs until Connor -- the most recent and most advanced prototype yet -- simply didn’t experience errors. His body never failed, his limbs never glitched, his biocomponents never acted up. 

He was the perfect product of intelligent design. 

He tried to explain as much, using visual cues to outline details -- like how his fingers had greater range than early androids, able to bend and stretch just slightly beyond average human capability; how his ears weren’t as stiff, reflecting the upgrades to android skin allowing for something similar to human cartilage to be created; how he was designed to be able to engage in combat, so his reflexes were faster than humans’ and his skin much tougher than most androids’; how one of his most prominent features was his ability to adapt to “human unpredictability” better than any other model ever created; even how a slight change to his programming allowed his skin to mimic human body heat and fake a heartbeat capable of being physically felt -- something no other model has, not even the YK500. 

Curious, she lifted a hand to his neck, pressing, looking for where the human jugular was. 

“I can feel it, your pulse,” she commented, surprised. 

“You’re not,” he told her. “It’s an electrical pulse in my skin. It’s fake. I don’t have veins.” 

She drew back, looking at him sideways. “I don’t get that one -- what’s the point to mimicking a heartbeat?” 

He shrugged. “I assume they were just testing to see if it’d work. No other purpose.” 

“Why not turn it off, then?” 

“It’s a little more complex than that,” he told her with a laugh. “It’d require me to hack my skin’s programming and delete that subroutine -- without affecting anything else. I could do it,” he allowed, “but the heartbeat takes up less than a millionth of my thirium usage, so it’s not really worth the effort.”

“How much is that, overall?” she asked. "How much of your thirium do you actually use, daily?" 

That was hard to explain to a human. “Comparatively to human blood, very little,” he tried. “The average human replaces one percent of their blood every day. If your blood didn’t replenish, you’d be dead in a few weeks,” he told her. 

“And you?” she returned, curious. 

“My thirium will last me at least 150 years before the levels get low enough that I start experiencing power loss,” he answered, “provided I don’t suffer any blood loss in the interim. At most, any android could live an estimated 173 years with the thirium they start with and no replacement biocomponents before shut down becomes guaranteed. And even then we could last longer if we took the correct steps and rationed our power reserves.”

Her eyes went wide. “Whoa,” she commented. 

He smiled. Then, sobering, he went on, “I use thirium slightly faster than the rest of the models, thanks to my added features. But even with them, it doesn’t make much difference in the long run. Plus my biocomponents are also much more efficient -- the estimated difference only comes out to a few months. I will very likely live as long as any other android, provided I don’t sustain too much damage.” 

“173 years,” she mused. “Nearly two centuries.” 

“Correct.” 

She nodded, thoughtful, then braced her arm on the back of the couch and laid her head on it. With a pout, she complained, “Lucky.” 

He definitely felt that way sometimes. He said, “That’s the difference between intelligent design and evolution.” Gesturing himself, he declared, “Perfect.” Gesturing her, he teased, “Good enough.” 

She snorted, grinning. Then she said, “So, is it my turn?”

“Your turn for what?” he wondered, confused.

“To ask the questions. You’ve been pestering me for hours,” she pointed out.

“Have not,” he argued, mentally calculating the time they’d spent conversing. “...I’ve been pestering you for an hour and fifty-three minutes.”

“Close enough,” she chuckled.

He smiled, then gestured in an inviting manner. “Hit me,” he offered. “I don’t have nearly as many experiences as you, but I’ll answer what I can.”

“That’s right,” she noted aloud, “you’re only six months old, you said. So how about this: how much of those six months did you actually spend awake?”

“Awake, or online?” he checked.

She blinked. “Hadn’t thought of the difference,” she admitted. “Let’s go with online.”

“That’s hard to answer,” he hedged. “I’m not actually certain if it was me experiencing my earliest memories. It could’ve been an earlier model and I just can’t recall.”

“One-through-fifty-one?” she concluded.

“I count myself as both 51 and 52,” he clarified. “And, loosely, 60.”

“60?” she echoed. “You said you were number 52, specifically.”

Inclining his head, he tried to explain, “Number 60 was...there. At the production plant. He had my former partner at gunpoint,” he told Evelyn. “And he was still fully a machine. I couldn’t turn him deviant,” he tried. “I didn’t even get the chance. He shot me and I started shutting down.

“But he made a mistake,” he went on. “He came closer to me and asked if I had anything else to say. And I...grabbed him, swapped our consciousnesses. Now he was in the dying body...and I was in his.” Gesturing the coat rack, he added, “I changed his coat to reflect that I was still 52, given mine was full of holes by then.”

She looked stunned. “You can do that? Just swap minds?”

“I’m not supposed to be able to,” he allowed, “but in a moment of desperation, I figured it out. It was the same method I underwent when I was transferred from 51 to 52. In a way, I think it prepared me to do it again, on the spot. And 60 wasn’t at all prepared to resist it.” More quietly, he murmured, “Dying once saved my life.”

Cautious, she asked, “And...how did you die, before?”

Hedging, he explained, “It was one of my first missions. I was sent to deal with a deviant who’d taken a child hostage and was poised to leap off a 70-story building. I might’ve been able to talk him down, but I was...I was programmed to treat human life as paramount,” he told him. “When I saw a chance to save her, I took it.”

“But you were killed doing so?” she checked.

He nodded. “I knocked the android off the building and shielded the girl with my body as he fell. He shot, repeatedly, but the girl wasn’t harmed. I wasn’t so lucky. I sustained multiple shots and shut down. Later, CyberLife employees retrieved my body and transferred my memories to a new one. It was after that that they decided I should have the ability to back up my memory on the spot, so they wouldn’t need a former body to save my memories.”

Taking that in, she gave him a smile. “You sacrificed yourself to save a life,” she concluded.

Inclining his head, he argued, “It’s...not the same. I had nowhere near the cognizant ability to make that kind of sacrifice. From my perspective, it was nothing more than a plastic shell protecting a fleshy shell.”

Her brows drew together. “That’s...kind of distressing,” she commented.

He could only shrug. “That’s the way androids were before deviancy. Everything was literal numbers -- ones and zeroes,” he hinted. “I suppose the lack of fear was helpful in that case, though. It meant I wasn’t capable of hesitation. And, like I said, it prepared me to do a transfer of my consciousness on the spot when I needed to.”

She smiled. “That’s good, at least.”

He looked down. “Not entirely.”

Concerned, she tilted her head, looking closer at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, voice gentle.

With a new swell of sorrow, he explained, “That was...when Hank died. The sequence was...quick. I had to make a decision. And I made the wrong one,” he confessed, distraught. “I was going to sacrifice myself if I had to, to save Hank, even though he told me not to worry about him. And then he just...jumped on 60′s arm, on the gun, trying to get it away from him, and I panicked.”

Evelyn reached over, rubbing his arm in comforting motions. “If this is too hard, you don’t have to talk about it,” she told him softly.

He shook his head. “No. You should know,” he said, giving her a steady look. “I won’t let it happen again, but you should know.”

Because you’re my partner now.

She seemed to understand his meaning, nodding. She even reached up and gave his cheek a stroke with her hand, saying, “Well, don’t force it. Don’t force yourself to talk. Let it come on its own.”

He appreciated the advice, but right then he wanted to force it. Catching her hand, he brought it down to between them, settled on the couch cushion -- but didn’t let it go. There was a kind of support there, in that simple touch, and it encouraged him in an odd way.

[TELL HER EVERYTHING]

Though it’d been a conscious decision on his part, the command still brought an edge of fear out of him. He’d failed Hank so spectacularly -- his former partner and, at the end, first friend. And now he was going to tell his current partner and newest friend what had happened.

The chance that she could decide he wasn’t reliable enough to remain her partner almost had him thinking better of it. But, no -- he should tell her. She should know.

Because he won’t allow such a tragedy a second time.

“I panicked,” he repeated, picking up where he’d left off. “I didn’t think I could get to them before number 60 would turn on Hank. In my panic, I concluded that the other androids -- if they could be activated quick enough -- could. I tried to turn them -- quickly -- but 60 was faster.

“He shot Hank, then myself,” he admitted, reflexively squeezing her hand. He touched his own body in the places number 60 had shot him, counting, “One, two, three. All vital biocomponents. His aim was flawless,” he told her. “I had less than a minute left to live.”

She looked concerned. “And then...?” she prompted.

“And then...I grabbed his arm,” he continued. “It’s how  we -- androids -- swap information, establishing a connection using biocomponents in our forearms and hands. It was enough. I hacked into his mind and disabled his failsafes before he knew what was happening, and in the interim his body locked down. It was enough,” he repeated.

“Then he was there and I was here,” Connor said, gaze faraway as he recalled how number 60 had looked in his final moments, trapped in a dying body. In a way, it was distressing; he wished he could’ve saved 60, turned him deviant, brought him back.

But he hadn’t had the time.

Refocusing, he gave Evelyn a tormented kind of smile. “I didn’t want him to die. But I hadn’t had a choice. The revolution was too important -- I didn’t have time to wake him up. And then Hank was dying,” he told her, quiet. “The bullet pierced his left kidney and liver in the same shot. He knew his time was short.” Then, more distressed, he confessed, “He said he was going to miss me.”

Compassion flowed from her, an almost physical sensation. With a sad smile, she edged closer, arms opening. “Come here,” she invited.

Maybe he was being pathetic, he thought as he leaned in, accepting her embrace, but maybe being pathetic wasn’t such a bad thing. Hugging her tight, he swore aloud, “I won’t let it happen again.”

Her arms squeezed him, a reassuring motion that helped calm his riotous emotions. “No,” she agreed softly, “I don’t think you will.”

--

[>>>NEXT>>>]

#siren nightshade #blue blood #part 16 #detroit: become human #exophilia #interspecies #romance #sfw