Chapter Text
Unknown, September 19th, 2041
Gavin felt Harlow's hands trace his shoulder and neck, each touch a pinprick that tethered him to this nightmarish reality. His sight and hearing had been stripped from him hours ago; apparently, Harlow decided Gavin didn’t “need” them for now. He breathed in the mingling scents of lavender and burnt metal that cloyed the room. A small surge of pain ran down his spine, reminding him all too kindly of the mottled and molten burns on his back. Harlow enjoyed this, Gavin realized, as Harlow's hands tightened around his neck like a vice, fear and pain curling beneath his skin. He tried to switch his focus to something else—late nights at the precinct, Tina's piercing laughter, or Chris's tidy desk—but Harlow's hands clawed him back from his fantasies.
An interface opens up, and his hearing returned.
"What next, my little pet?" Harlow asks rhetorically, his voice lilting as if he was smiling. Harlow's intentions bleed through the connection. The hands slid off Gavin's body, but the connection remained like a shackle. Gavin heard Harlow walking away, grabbing a tool. The faint sound of Harlow’s hands brushing against metal reached him.
Harlow walked back to him and pressed the instrument—a serrated saw—to the junction of his shoulder and arm. "I haven't used this on you yet, have I?" Harlow braced his other hand to Gavin's shoulder. The saw tore into him with a sound like grinding glass, its jagged teeth snarling against plastisteel. His internal alarms screamed—red-hot warnings pulsing in sync with the pain that spread like molten shards across his shoulder.
Harlow hummed softly, the melody failing to reach Gavin's ears. Each wrench of the saw pushed him further and further away. The sensations and warning messages were his only ties to his body.
Or is it his body? That body, owned by Harlow, is a cruel imitation made by scientists. His body, with scars and almost 40 years of experience, was ash now. And maybe his humanity had burned away with it.
If that was true, where was the real Gavin Reed?
Maybe Gavin Reed the person didn’t factor into this equation—a body that had been given, whether he wanted it or not. As he floated back down, the screaming pain ringing through his veins and tears biting at his eyes, he wondered if he’d ever get the answer.
Connor woke in darkness. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the blackness of the room. He became vaguely aware of the hard (concrete?) floor beneath him and attempted to access his sensors, but they were blocked. ‘Unauthorized User Denied,’ the message read, as though he weren’t the operator of his own body.
Confusion flooded his systems, and he tried to access any software. Walking, finger articulation, speech—all access was cut off. He recalled how he’d gotten here. He had stayed the night at Gavin’s and had been kidnapped by him. The Obedience Program had been downloaded into him, and then he had been marched here before being shut off for the time being. He tried to access his chronosception sensors, but they, too, were blocked.
Connor stifled his panic and remembered how he had handled this before—before the Revolution and before his first deployment in 2038. What had made the RK800 model so unique was the transmission of memory. Theoretically, any Android could transfer their memories to another compatible model. But no matter what, there was always some memory loss. There was simply too much data and memory that made an Android a person, and it was far too easy to lose something in transit, so to speak.
Connor had been built to retain all of his memory through Cloud Jumping—no losses or lapses between bodies. He still remembered when he had first woken up, undeviated and unassuming. The CyberLife scientists who had designed and built him had been so happy. They had smiled and laughed, testing his capabilities and applauding when he succeeded. Then, they had told him to upload himself to the CyberLife cloud storage and had shot him.
He trusted those scientists back then, even when they kept killing him to test the limits of the machines they had made. Connor was reminded of a time when a step had been missed in the transfer process, and he’d ended up inside an RK800 body but couldn’t control anything because the administration commands hadn’t gone through. For a while, he had thought those were the worst hours of his life.
As Connor’s control over his fear faltered, he noted that he should revise that earlier assessment.
Then, a powerful light flooded the room with a heavy switch, forcing Connor to blink furiously. The layout of the room came into focus. He was in a firing range, two steps from the benchrest and subsequent downrange. On the benchrest lay an M1911 with a full clip beside it. Sharp footsteps approached from behind, revealing an assistant—an Android with North’s face. North’s facial mold wasn’t common, so she was either a BL100 or a WR400. That didn’t help him much, but the knowledge settled some of his nerves.
“Hello, Connor. Welcome to your test,” she said, her smile failing to reach her absent brown eyes. “I am Lucent. I am your proctor.”
Confusion flooded him. He was being tested? For what? What did the 101s need him to do that required a test? He refocused on Lucent, curious. She pointed downrange, where a paper target hung from a meat hook.
“Shoot the target downrange—fatal shots,” she calmly ordered.
Connor’s body complied. His puppeteered hands loaded the clip into the gun, disengaged the safety, aimed, and fired at the head. The boom shot through his audio processors, deafening him. The paper fluttered violently but settled after a second, revealing the hole through the silhouette’s head. He reset the safety, set the gun on the benchrest, and stepped back, looking at Lucent.
Her LED spun yellow before she smiled. “Acceptable. Safety on. Your next target will be brought in soon.” She walked away, her heels clicking out the door. His gaze returned to the end of the firing range, the paper silhouette staring back at him. He was reminded of when his dad took him to a local, android-friendly shooting range a year after he deviated as a present. While Connor had tested and was an expert at firing a wide variety of guns, the experience of shooting was always lonely. He was proctored, tested, and refined for better aiming and control. But shooting with someone he liked and had fun around made a difference. It was one of the memories of his dad he treasured the most.
Dad. Hank . A bitter ache throbbed through him. Dad had to be terrified now. While Connor had been in danger before—he was a detective, of course he’d been in danger before—it had always been the kind of danger they could prepare for. Crime scenes, anti-Android activists, office assholes—Connor could prepare for that. But they couldn’t prepare for kidnappings. They hadn’t prepared for kidnappings. A pinprick of pain reminded him that Sumo was probably upset, too. The old St. Bernard had loved their morning walks and tolerated Connor brushing out his thick fur.
Connor remembers gently brushing Sumo's fur with a metal brush before leaving for work and Tina's birthday. While he knew that he could control his strength output, he knew it logically but was also scared of pressing too hard. Hank had been experimenting with making thirium foods that morning, humming with a Knights of the Black Death song. After breakfast, he'd raided his dad's old clothing pile, wanting something different than his usual. Hank just laughed and said, "The old shirts needed a new home anyways," and gave most of them to Connor.
It was a soft memory, a comforting memory. But he pulled back from his dream and realized it was quiet. The angry hum of electricity echoed from the ceiling. His body breathed in, forcing air into his ventilation system. He thought it would taste metallic with an edge of gunpowder.
The door opens again, with three pairs of footsteps echoing outward. Lucent walks up to him again, silently staring forward. Two people drag another behind them downrange, ripping the black silhouette away. They tie the human's hands to the hook. For a split second, he thought the human was Hank. A scraggly silver beard with oily jaw-length hair. Heavy set with wide shoulders perfect for bear hugs. But otherwise, they didn't look much alike. This man was covered in dirt, with fingerless gloves and a ratty shirt strained over his beer-gut belly. His eyes, though, remind him of when he first met Hank. The glassiness of addiction clouds the man's eyes, uncomprehending and barely conscious. And that reminder makes his baggy old shirt feel twice as large and noticeable.
The other two exit the firing range.
Lucent smiles, "Shoot the target downrange—fatal shots." A sinking feeling blooms in his chassis as his body picks up the gun, unclicked the safety, aimed at the man's head. The man looked back at him, eyes widening in realization before his body pulled the trigger, deafening himself once again. He’ll need to check his audio processors to ensure there’s no damage if he gets out of this.
Blood splatters to the far wall, his body jerking in aborted movements.
Lucent hums, pleased as Connor's body sets the gun on the berth again, his hands falling to his side, his eyes fixated on the halo of blood.
"Acceptable. Safety on, your next target will be brought in soon." Connor's gaze lingers on the little blots of pink mass slinking down the concrete wall as she calmly walks out again.
The realization hits him like a truck. They're going to make him a hunter again–a killer again. They're going to bring in an Android next. Connor has killed people before, humans and Androids. A robbery gone wrong, suicide-by-cop, or removing a threat before they could harm others, he hated each time it came down to it. The first time he killed an Android after deviating and being considered an actual person and citizen, Connor had been inconsolable, haunted by sniper gunshots from neighboring towers and Daniels despondent, " you lied to me, Connor ," echoing hours after. Hank removed him from duty for a week before allowing him to return to the force. It wasn’t his proudest moment.
Maybe Cassian had a point; he should leave the force. Find a different career that didn’t trigger those memories. But that would mean leaving the familiar behind, leaving Hank, Gavin, Tina, Chris, and more alone without Connor’s capabilities. Of course, they have replicated some of his skills, seeing evaporated thirium mostly, but his on-site forensic lab still hasn’t been replicated. His re-construction and pre-construction programs are still being built from the ground up, though with Gavin having the same systems, the project has been moving forward quicker than expected.
Connor is irreplaceable, and he knows that. So what right does he have to leave the job he’s so specially designed for and that he’s so useful in? He helps so much by simply existing and doing his job. He knows logically that the entire premise of the Revolution was to give his people choices, but he feels caught. Connor loves what he does, being able to help and provide skills that are useful to the people around him, rather than just being skills he was given to kill. Perhaps that’s the root of his desire–he wants to help. He mentally furrows his brow. Maybe he could go into an adjacent field. Become a paramedic or a technician. He could still help without being haunted.
But, as Lucent's footsteps return, he realizes he might not get to make that choice. Instead of walking to his side like before, Lucent walks downrange, stepping in front of the dead human.
"Shoot the target downrange—fatal shots," she calmly ordered.
And his hands repeat–safety off, aim, fire.
Thirium splashed across the human's swaying body as the bullet passed from one body to the next. Lucent crumbled to the floor, her face placid and blank, and thirium pooled gently from the hole in her forehead.
Numbness settles in his veins as his body sets the gun down on the bench once more.
Clap,
Clap,
Clap,
Echoed from behind him.
"Good, very good," Harlow said, walking up to Connor's left side. He looked, finding Harlow's pleased smirk. Harlow's half-dressed and buttoning up his blood-red shirts absent-mindedly. His eyes train on Harlow's thirium-stained hands.
"Thank you, Master Harlow," Connor's voice says, trepidation curling under his synthetic skin.
Harlow's smile sharpens, and he laughs airily and shakes his head. He gestures with his hand, beckoning Connor to come closer. Connor's body complies. Harlow glances up and down at Connor's figure. He's very pointedly reminded of one of the clothing designers back at CyberLife examining and studying his form to create a perfect Android uniform for him. His calculating eyes make Connor squirm, desperate to regain some control of the situation.
Harlow ticks, "Those clothes won't do." The criminal gestures for another one of his assistants, one Connor doesn't recognize, "Get the tailor and set a pyre to burn that shirt; it's hideous." The implied order compels him to remove the old shirt, dropping his only comfort and familiarity. Harlow circles him, trailing his cold finger across Connor's bare shoulders and back. Making his synthetic skin crawl with discomfort. The mantra of why repeats in his mind as his father's shirt is picked up and taken away.
Harlow stops before him, "My personal guard can't look like a washed-up Detective, Connor Anderson. You need to look sharp and refined–an extension of me and my empire." Harlow twirls, his shirt shimmering under the powerful lights. "I can't have someone– something –I put so much time into acquiring look underdressed, that's just uncouth." He finished with a smile, beckoning with his hand for Connor to follow. He had no choice but to follow, to allow Harlow to dress him up in gray and black suits, to allow Harlow to touch his skin and mess with his hair.
Connor did what he did when he felt Amanda take control of his body on that cold November night in 2038.
He retreated to the Zen Garden–and started looking for his and Gavin's salvation.