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Small flurries of snow were falling from the sky as Hank’s Oldsmobile pulled up to the curb of what had once been a residential street. Connor shrugged his coat on more snugly as he stepped out of the vehicle. He glanced down the long row of dilapidated houses before turning to face the one in front of him. Knowing what waited inside made the rotting wood facade and vacant windows appear darker by comparison. A completely illogical thought, as his processor told him there was no real visual difference between this house and the others, but that didn’t change the feeling it evoked.
They had been called in for a familiar story: an android’s destroyed body discovered and reported in one of the city’s numerous abandoned structures. Judging by the report, a hate crime seemed likely.
“We always get assigned the cases in the shittiest places,” Hank grumbled as he passed by, heading up the icy walkway. The two entered through the open front door, which hung half off its hinges. The interior wasn’t in much better shape. A minefield of debris littered the floor. Some of it was garbage from squatters, but most of it seemed to simply be from the house falling apart. A large gap of the back wall was missing, letting the freezing wind dust snow across half the room.
“This weather isn’t very optimal for these conditions,” Connor couldn’t help but agree with Hank’s earlier statement. A quick check told him the temperature inside was only 2 degrees warmer than the 10°F outside.
“‘Not very optimal.’” Hank huffed, slowing to a halt as the two of them came upon the sight of the dead android splayed across the floor. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t freeze our balls off in here in five minutes.”
Connor tilted his head pensively. “Actually, I don’t hav—”
“Can it.” Hank split off, going to search the adjoining room.
Connor turned his attention to investigating the body in front of him. The victim appeared to have been beaten to death with a blunt object, with most injuries affecting the side of his head. He swiped two fingers beneath one of the wounds to sample some of the thirium that had not yet dissolved from his body, taking note of the victim’s identifying information.
He then turned to scan the surrounding environment. Given the ample number of blunt objects amid the debris in the house, there was a high likelihood that the murder weapon was still present on the scene.
It wasn’t long before something caught his eye. Connor knelt, grabbing the piece of metal and tugging it free from where it had been haphazardly shoved under a piece of plywood. It was a bar about the length and thickness of his forearm, likely a piece of rebar from the collapsed wall. More interestingly, there were flecks of dark blue spattered on one end of it. The freezing metal chilled Connor’s hand as he rotated it, peering closer. It was undoubtedly traces of thirium.
A glance over his shoulder confirmed Hank was still in the other room. Connor lifted the evidence to his mouth, foregoing swiping it onto his fingers and licking it directly this time. Thankfully, there was enough thirium present for him to gather a suitable sample. He was not surprised to find that it matched the victim.
Satisfied with the data, Connor lowered the bar from his mouth. Or at least, he tried to. His tongue was…sticking to it?
His brow furrowed, attempting the action again. When that didn’t work, he tried pulling a little harder. It wouldn’t come free. His level of discomfort climbed.
“Well, I haven’t found shit—” Hank reappeared around the corner behind him. He paused as he caught sight of Connor’s predicament. “Ulgh, Connor! The minute I turn my back you’re sticking nasty shit in your mouth again.”
“Haeh,” Connor said, turning to face him. “is’s ‘uck.”
“…Oh, Christ.” Hank groaned. “You licked the flagpole.”
Connor’s brow furrowed. “I’ss nah—”
“I know it’s not—” Hank cut himself off, eyes closing. “You’re not supposed to lick frozen metal, you idiot. Your tongue freezes to it.”
“Unh. Ny ‘on’lusion a’ well.” Connor shifted his weight, feeling warmth creep into his face.
Hank’s facial expression was rapidly shifting from exasperation to amusement. “So,” he said, crossing his arms. “How do you think we should fix it?”
Connor considered. “‘ee hea’,” he suggested.
“What was that?”
“Nee’d heat,” he repeated, struggling to form the letters.
Hank chuckled. “Yeah, that’d probably do it. C’mon, I might still have some coffee out in the car.”
Connor followed after him, tilting his head to try to see better around the bar. His left shin knocked into one of the numerous piles of clutter, sending a cascade of rusty cans rolling across the floor. Hank reached back and grabbed his arm, helping to guide him the rest of the way outside. This proved to be a helpful gesture when they were confronted with the icy sidewalk outside.
“Easy there, Bambi,” he told him as Connor miscalculated one of his steps and ended up sliding into him. At a questioning tilt of the android’s head, he smirked and just said, “It’s from an old movie.”
Thankfully, they made it to the car without further incident. Connor waited off to the side while Hank opened the car, his free arm crossed self-consciously over his chest.
“I can’t help thinking,” Hank’s voice was muffled as he rummaged around in the front seat, “All those fancy simulations, and yet this is what you didn’t see coming?” He reemerged with a beat-up thermos, its dull red paint still sporting a few sticky shreds where an anti-android sticker used to be.
Connor, given his limited ability to reply, opted for a shrug. It wasn’t like he ran predictions on everything.
“Now before I help you, there’s one thing I need to do.”
Before he could ask, Hank was lifting his phone in his other hand and snapping a picture of him.
“‘ey!” he exclaimed.
The lieutenant chuckled, tucking the device back in his pocket. “Always good to have blackmail material.”
Connor somehow found it doubtful that was his true intention for the photo. There was, however, a very real possibility it would end up as his contact photo in Hank’s phone. Or worse, the device’s background image. That had already happened once before during an incident where he underestimated Sumo’s strength in a game of tug of war. In the yard, after it had been raining. With several large mud patches present.
It hadn’t been pretty.
“Alright, we’ve got one shot at this,” Hank said. “Otherwise, you have to sit and wait in the car for it to melt. Which might not be a bad deal, seeing as how fucking cold it is.”
He unscrewed the metal cap. A whisp of steam curled up from the container. Connor held the piece of metal as far back from his face as he could. He didn’t want the coffee to run down and onto his clothes.
“Ready?” Hank cocked a brow.
“‘eady.”
The lieutenant angled the thermos in front of Connor’s face. Then, he poured.
The coffee hit his tongue. For a split second, his processor automatically began listing the chemicals present in the mixture (Trigonelline, Caffeine, Sucrose), but it was interrupted by a strange sensation prickling across the delicate component. He wasn’t able to feel pain, of course, but the level of heat seemed to be causing damage.
In a matter of seconds, Connor was able to pull his tongue free. He clamped a hand over his mouth, wincing.
Hank grinned. “Better?”
“My mouth has…” Connor paused, distracted by an input telling him to temporarily minimize the use of the vocal component to encourage faster healing. “…sus’ained ‘amage.”
“You mean it burned you?”
He chose to nod rather than speak.
“Oh.” Hank’s slightly strangled tone of voice indicated he was attempting not to laugh. He was doing a poor job of it. “Shit, I should’ve realized it would still be piping hot. Guess that’s never happened to you before, huh?”
Connor averted his gaze, lips twisting to the side in a frown. He failed to see exactly what was so humorous about this situation.
“Well, at least it got you unstuck.” Hank gave him a clap on the back.
Connor turned back to the house. “My ‘io’omponents shoul’ heal ‘oon,” he muttered.
Hank snorted. At a glare shot from the corner of Connor’s eye, he lifted his hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it. Let’s get back in there so we can figure this thing out and go the fuck home.”
That course of action sounded very agreeable. They went back inside to continue their work, allowing Connor to set aside his lingering embarrassment and finish investigating the crime scene in peace.
…Until, of course, it was time to explain his findings to Hank. No matter how grim the message, he suspected there were few forces in existence that could stop the laughter that burst forth from the lieutenant when Connor turned to him and said with a completely serious expression and tone of voice,
“I su’ect ‘he kill’a migh’ve commigh’ed mul’iple uh’her mur’ers.”