Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Connor breaks three walls to become deviant.

With mouth slightly open and teeth clenched, he reconsiders the bridge, connecting names from his databases to their actual colours. Before this point, he’d only seen identifiers associated with greys and took those facts at face value, never having marveled at what it meant to really see.

The lights at each station are floating flowers.

He makes an inaudible, stunned gasp.

In the short time he’s been online, the world had always been black, white, or grey. Though made of steel and plastic, he was more human than CyberLife wanted to admit.

When Connor refocuses on Markus, he notes confusion and curiousity in the other’s pensive gaze.

Markus’s worry is ridiculous, as he’s converted innumerable androids to his cause. Connor himself a statistic in a pile of numbers tipped to Markus’ favour.

Connor’s eyes are damp.

He sees the world.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

▲

Connor places five thick books into the box nearly brimming with them. He covers the box, pushing it aside, and takes the closest empty box, setting its cover aside as he continues to pile in worn, falling apart paperbacks.

The high windows of the makeshift storage room are filter in dimming yellow light that Connor will occasionally lift a book to as he enjoys the new colours made.

There’s shuffling behind him, sounding like Josh’s footfalls.

He turns around to see Josh’s hands moving away from a box he brought in and placed on the metal table by the doorway. “Wow, there’s more here than we thought.”

Connor resumes his task when Josh doesn’t continue speaking.

They pack in companionable silence.

Mostly, stray pages are stuck in portions or pages of books. Worst cases are entire books completely gutted among random piles of books. He’s put together a few dozen in the open boxes to his left, marked for later restoration.

Each page has its own colour.

Connor can detect textures and smells, but not the way humans react to them.

From his initial visit to Eden Club then going back after the revolution, he’s learned androids can experience aversions from positive and negative reinforcements as humans do. Smells are a strong factor in that. Connor hasn’t had too many of these yet.

Touch is another big human trait he hasn’t entirely connected with. Feeling the pages in a book does little for him. He admires the fragility in older texts, how they’re fleeting, like human lives, siren lights shifting colours near a crime scene.

As much as he would like to love music, it falls flat for him, too. He listens to amazing words strung with horrible scores and vice-versa. Should the song comes together in what he enjoys in music, Connor doesn't really understand it.

His other senses don’t make as much sense as seeing does. The closest thing to humanity he understands is colour.

He processes exactly what humans who’ve met their soulmates do.

Colours – Connor can work with what they give him.

If anything, he is grateful deviancy provided the wonder of clarity in at least one aspect of his life.

“…u there?”

Connor blinks, realizing he’d been ignoring Josh.

“Sorry, what?”

Josh’s mouth twists in an attempt to hide his concern. “I was wondering if you wanted to take a break? You seem out of it. I mean, you’ve been packing for six hours now.”

Connor blinks rapidly before the data processes. Six hours, forty-three minutes, twelve seconds and counting.

“I got lost in the colours. They’re fascinating.”

“What?” Josh starts.

Connor lifts a book and smiles. “The books. They’re all different.”

Josh’s eyes widen. “You can see them? Colours?”

Connor’s smile fades. “Don’t we all?”

Josh furrows his brow. “Well, when we meet our soulmates, we do.”

Connor tilts his head. “No, I mean, deviants.”

Josh opens then closes his mouth, frowns, looking baffled. “No, deviancy doesn’t make you see. Your soulmate does.”

Connor stares. “It’s the same for us as for humans?”

Josh is about to speak when Connor gets another thought.

“You can’t see them?”

Josh’s eyebrows are arched. “I haven’t met mine yet.”

Connor puts the book down and completely faces Josh. “We don’t see colours when we deviate?”

“Wh-why would you think that?”

▲

He begins feeling the clothes he chose to infiltrate Jericho are out of his comfort zone about three hours after telling Markus his plan to infiltrate CyberLife. Everything fits poorly and he’s lost in the fabrics.

His movements aren’t affected but his clothes matter.

Ignoring the peculiarity, Connor moves the wounded and runs diagnostics when others can’t find underlying problems that are of have become critical.

Afterwards, Connor finds a faded painting of a saint in blue in one of the smaller corridors, immediately missing and loathing his old uniform. He’ll need to change back before returning to CyberLife.

Her gaze wistfully upwards, detached sorrow denoting pious nature, she is the lone figure on a forgotten canvas.

Alone but amongst his people, Connor decides his favourite colour is blue.

▲

Connor accesses what information on soulmates is available to him without breaking laws. A lot of it is tawdry trash or softcore pornography followed by incorrect media representations then online sites and videos not made by professionals. While there are a number of studies and scientific journals on the topic, those are a small percentage of public access on the topic.

“Seven,” he mumbles, staring at his favourite hue on a nearby bluebird. He stretches out on the fountain’s edge before deciding to lie on it.

With no basic humans needs or obligations to powers above him, Connor spends his precious little free time enjoying Detroit’s scenery. He could move in items with colours he loves into his mostly empty room, but finds no desire to own things. His door stays unlocked.

Somehow, liberating androids from CyberLife, despite his limited involvement, catapulted him into being one of the revolution’s leaders. So ending up with the others on the top floor of their new headquarters in midtown was unexpected.

For a puzzling reason, the Jerrys included a bed. Connor has zero use for it. The desk, chair, window, and working lights were more logical and appreciated.

His bed winds up a makeshift couch.

His room remains in the cleaned and restored state some Jerrys had left it. Considerately, they thought it would be easier to design if it were brand new. The joy of discovering a new shade of colour is most compelling reason he keeps his living space barren.

Not exactly interested in interior design, Connor seeks out colours while perusing any information on soulmates.

He’ll sift old chat logs where androids and humans discussed soulmates or colours and will listen in on various open lines if he picks up anything.

So far, nothing is helpful.

He thought they were different because colours came with his deviancy.

Some androids admitted seeing colours wasn’t enough to push them to deviate.

There must be something wrong with him. He is, after all, a prototype.

While human studies have shown they gain colours when meeting their soulmate, there’s no human equivalent to deviancy. No human equivalent to seeing colours without making contact with their soulmate. There are no android studies or scholarly articles.

It’s a beautiful day to Connor, though, and he doesn’t have all of it to watch bluebirds or patches of blue peek between spaces in the clouds. Deciding he’s spent enough time mulling over soulmates, he enjoys the colours.

The soulmate principle might not apply to him.

He’d always been slightly off when compared to other androids, anyway. And if that meant he got to appreciate colours, he’d count his blessings.

▲

North’s been building up asking him something, shuffling around damaged parts without examining them. “Are you really going to go?”

“We’re the only free androids left in Detroit.”

North doesn’t let lines between her brows or around her mouth, but her wide eyes are concerned. “I’ve always been one for fighting, and I mean it when I say we could use you here.”

Connor doesn’t tell her he thinks he’s done enough here.

▲

“None of you saw colours when you deviated?”

A dozen Jerrys look at him with bright eyes, all excited to help in any way they can.

“No,” comes a chorus.

Connor tries a different approach, “When did you see colours?”

“Not all of us can.”

“No, only one here.”

“That’s me!”

“Tell him how you saw her!”

“I found my soulmate in a recycling center. I stopped being scared. I felt complete.”

“I love hearing that story.”

“It’s a great story!”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” one of the Jerrys ask Connor.

Besides the story lacking major events and any timeline, Connor sees their happy faces and feels separate from them. He doesn’t try to smile because he knows it doesn’t look right if he doesn’t mean it. “It is.”

▲

North properly introduces Connor to Elizabeth and Natalie when he picks her brains over soulmates. North doesn’t have a frame of reference, either, only common things she’s heard.

She thinks it’s another of Connor’s curiosities because of the one small thing that doesn’t make sense ending up a giant cow on his tracks, and everything else stops making sense since he gets hung up on the details.

North also wants the WR400s to get over their trepidation around Connor. Elizabeth’s, mostly.

Natalie, though protective, doesn’t hold the past against him. Connor surmises Elizabeth doesn’t mind him, merely related him to past traumas.

“I saw colours the first time I saw her,” Natalie says. “It didn’t mean anything to me at the time. But she kept talking to me even though it wasn’t part of our program. I started remembering her despite the resets.” Natalie smiles at Elizabeth and wraps an around the other’s shoulders. “Eventually, it became clear.”

North shrugs, small smile in place. “That’s how it usually is, deviancy aside. You see each other then boom, that’s all there is.”

Connor eyes Elizabeth’s hair and finds that hue of blue falls into a category of blues he doesn’t find particularly compelling.

“It’s never been the other way around? Deviancy leading to seeing colours?”

Elizabeth glances at Natalaie, who answers, “Not for us.”

▲

The church is filled with whispers of his ill-planned infiltration of CyberLife.

Connor doesn’t understand the reasons of their hushed tones, as he can hear them perfectly, and so can they all, cramped as it is in the church, despite their reduced numbers.

If he were a rational machine, he might reconsider the plan. Looking back, he’s never been too rational to begin with.

Since he’s been able to see colours, Connor can’t stop throwing everything he has into his new life.

Failing doesn’t cross his mind as an option, though it should.

CyberLife would have been alerted to his deviancy the moment they lost contact with him and his GPS signal.

When the murmurs grow loud enough to stop being discreet, everyone immediately quiets, drawing more attention to what they collectively thought of his idea. In that moment, Connor locks eyes with Markus, who’s been watching him.

Connor offers a shrug and an involuntary quirk of his lips.

▲

At midnight, Connor’s still on the rooftop.

He loves how the night can retain blues with the right lighting. Signs and lights glow undisturbed.

The center of the buildings they’ve appropriated in this plaza is lively with lights and other androids, creating a comfortable pairing with the darkened sky.

The door behind him creaks. He looks back and finds Markus.

“Oh, hi,” Markus says, surprised to see him.

“Hello,” Connor returns, not expecting anyone either. He waits until Markus finds a spot next to him before returning his attention to the sky.

“Stargazing?” Markus asks.

Connor can see more stars than a human would. “No, I was looking at the sky, but I notice them now.”

Markus considers his words. “I find myself looking over Detroit.”

Connor looks at him and waits to see if he’ll talk about the weight on his shoulders. They do what they can where they can, but most of their cause remains upon Markus. Programming or not, whatever anyone of them may think, a word from Markus, and axes shift – for better or ill.

When Markus only offers him a barely present grin, Connor searches for a topic in which Markus wouldn’t have to heavily participate.

“Have you read Milton?”

“Carl much preferred Shakespeare and Keats,” Markus nudges his head to the side, remembering. “I don’t think I’ve read enough to have a grasp on Milton, unfortunately.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Connor says. “There’s no particular knowledge on Milton you need.” He steps forward, as if it would help him see the blues in the sky more clearly. It doesn’t.

It makes zero sense; he wants to get closer anyway.

“Everything used to be monochrome. I think about the world I never saw before. How it was far away, or maybe I was the one removed.”

Markus is quiet, but there is no unease or awkwardness. Markus is often very quiet.

“‘Of living Saphire, once his native Seat; and fast by hanging in a golden Chain this pendant world.’” Connor recites, he smiles and turns to Markus, pointing up at the sky. “That’s what Milton called the Earth.” His hand returns to his side as he looks at the horizon. “There are so many planets, but the Earth is special. Close to God’s heart. And I think, even if I don’t believe in gods, I can understand why.”

Markus can’t help the way his brow furrows, as it often does, mouth pursed in a tight line. “A pendant world?” He stands and moves to Connor’s other side, glancing down at the hand that gestured to the sky before falling beside Connor again, wanting to be closer. “It’s been hard for me to see it that way.”

Connor eyes him curiously, expression open but not persistent.

Markus finds himself smiling, even though it’s tired and somewhat defeated. “Do you feel like meeting Carl? His health has been improving, but I’ll have to work a day out.”

Connor takes the new topic in stride. “I thought he was in a fragile state?”

“Leo’s presence and rehabilitation has helped a lot.”

Connor’s eyes are dark in the night, but nothing about them frightens Markus.

“If you prefer me there, I’d be happy to go.”

Markus nods then looks at the androids in the square below them. “Maybe not the world,” he corrects, “but I value this. What we have. How far we’ve come.”

Connor’s brows are slightly raised, features softening. “My world used to be so small, but I understand there’s so much more than what I know or have seen.”

Markus looks back into Connor’s eyes, gaze skirting downward before quickly shifting back up and away, making Connor tilt his head in question.

▲

Amanda was the first closest thing to a companion he had. Probably not what people normally considered a friend, but he never realized the exacting power she had until CyberLife attempted to take over his systems.

For most of Connor’s brief existence, he’d had much autonomous control, so the change in status quo had been alarming.

He couldn’t understsand until it was almost too late, until they tried to take his autonomy away. A perplexing concept: to be free within boundaries, to be a prisoner without them.

What Amanda told him in their even briefer final exchange explained a lot and so little, but there was no time to parse the information into anything useful until later.

What CyrberLife made Amanda into was nothing compared to what she originally meant to Elijah Kamski.

Connor misses her, attributing it to a leftover string of Elijah’s sentiments.

The back door afforded him complete control of his choices. It reminded him how different his programming was from other androids when he breached it. Hastily rewriting the direly corrupted data strings, he saved the total overhaul for after he was away from prying eyes, before meeting Hank in the morning.

Analyzing and reconstructing his codes showed how complex he’d been built – how fragile his systems ultimately were. Connor was always going to be replaced, in the end.

Three walls, each containing different aspects of himself that made a whole.

They’d compartmentalized everything about him, so he compartmentalized himself based on instructions, easily cutting out variables that would have made deviating too easy. That would have made him complete. He was nearly CyberLife’s perfect creature.

In the end, Connor is only himself, a creature.

▲

The most surprising image of the blocks surrounding Carl Manfred’s estate is how peaceful, clean, and seemingly in another reality it's in. The weather feels different, too, but this is an opinion not based on facts.

The blues on the stained-glass windows are the first things that catch Connor’s eye, closely followed by the striking rug on the stairs, but a large painting by a sofa comes into view, and everything else exponentially loses his interest.

“Carl?” Markus calls out next to him, walking towards wooden doors that slide open on proximity, “Are you—oh, there you are.”

Connor follows, eyes trailing off the large painting to see more by the windows to the left of the doorway. His eyes still on a familiar partially rendered face surrounded by blues and reds.

When Markus introduces him, Connor is not so lost in thought to have lost track of their pleasantries and conversation.

“Hello, Mr. Manfred,” Connor doesn’t offer his hand since Carl, from what little stories Markus has told, didn’t appear interested in formalities. “Thank you for having us, I know you haven’t been well.”

Carl moves his head in a dismissive manner, “I’ve got nothing left but time. Connor, was it? Glad you’ve decided to keep Markus company.”

Markus and Carl go over his medications, what his new caretaker is picking up with Leo in the town over, and Connor’s eyes continue to wander different sized canvases in the room.

The taxidermized giraffe is unexpected and the gaudiest thing in Carl’s estate.

As they walk to Carl’s studio, Connor catches a glimpse of literature on one of the many shelves where a selection of Keats’ works and Hamlet rests among other works.

“Are you still painting?” Markus inquires, though he seems to know the answer.

“Short of my health, I doubt I’ll ever stop.”

Connor stares at more pieces Carl has painted, lingering on blue splashes of colour longer than most. He doesn’t know why he loves seeing blue bleed into various hues or other colours. Captivating.

“You’ve been gawking for a while now,” Carl directs at him, teasing tone evident. “What do you think?”

Connor tilts his head in consideration, his nonanswer self-indulgent, “I don’t think you’re asking for an extrapolation of data from your fame, income, and reviews.”

Carl chuckles, “No.”

“Apologies, I don’t have an eye for art.”

Carl grins kindly, “You’ve been staring holes into my work and you have nothing to say? Sounds familiar,” he throws Markus a glance.

A smile forms on one end of Connor’s lips, “Oh, that—it’s the colours,” he gestures at a piece, “I’ve found myself…partial. In that sense, I suppose I enjoy your pieces very much.”

Carl watches him then gives Markus a look, “You’re not the only one who’s partial.” This time, Markus tenses fractionally at being referred to.

“Carl,” Markus warns.

Connor’s interest is immediately piqued. “Which colours do you like, Markus?”

Carl laughs while Markus clears his throat.

Markus has difficulty speaking, “…As of late? Browns, probably.”

Connor’s brow lowers in thought. “Not my preference.”

Carl’s laughter starts again and Connor thinks he hasn’t said something inappropriate as the man doesn’t often use brown and his body language doesn’t betray offense in any way.

Markus makes a face and sound of discomfort. “Okay, Carl, let’s calm down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m sure there are creatively compelling pieces with— ”

Markus relaxes, shaking his head, “No, don’t worry. That’s not what Carl finds funny.”

Carl’s laughter dwindles, he leans back in his wheelchair and sighs. “Ah, the palate of one’s mind.”

Though mildly exasperated, Markus can’t help his indulgent grin.

Connor still misses meanings nuanced in conversations between close individuals, but watching them leaves him satisfied. A perfect lull has come.

“Would you mind if I asked you a personal question, Mr. Manfred?”

Carl gives Connor a look that tells him to proceed.

“I saw a painting by your dining table that looked similar to one in Elijah Kamski’s house. Why are there two near identical pieces?”

Carl blinks and Markus perks up. “I didn’t know you knew Elijah.”

“I don’t, exactly.”

Carl nods, but doesn’t press. “The one I have is a draft. He has the finished piece.”

Connor blinks. “A gift.” Met belated with another.

Carl lets a vague smile onto his lips, eyes seeing the past. “Yes, a simple christening for the opening of his company. At the time, I was one of the few who was very proud of him.”

Connor looks Markus over – he is definitely a creation made with care and affection. He doesn’t understand what he means to Carl, to the androids. He truly is special.

▲

“I don’t know why everything I touch ends up messed up in some way,” Markus admits.

“Markus, how can you say that when you haven’t yet understood everything completely? This isn’t a thing long past – you’re both here now.”

“Every time I’ve reached out for something, it’s ended horribly. Sure, things are fine now, but the road ahead is unpredictable. I don’t know why he doesn’t… Maybe I’m mistaken.”

Carl smacks his lips together in thought. “When you look at him, what do you think? What do you feel?”

Markus unclenches his jaw to answer, “For the first time since I left, I feel hope. In someone else.”

Carl flexes his jaw, nodding, “You certainly look overly besotted.”

Markus lets out an amused breath. “Short of my death, I doubt I’ll ever stop.”

They end up sharing warm smiles over the exchange, stifling any excessive noise that might draw Connor’s attention from Carl’s sketches to them.

Carl hums deep in his throat. “I wouldn’t suggest Keats. He didn’t exactly have the best of luck.”

Markus laughs softly, “Of course.”

Carl gives him one those not-smiles, where his eyes light up, that Markus misses all the time.

▲

The noise from the memorial fountain soothes his exceedingly complicated thoughts.

Humans don’t have to fall in love with soulmates. Often, the media says people can’t be complete without their other half.

Life isn’t so simple.

There have been instances of people who never meet their soulmates. Connor’s lucky he found colour immediately, when others lived entire lives without it.

Aristophanes’ story on soulmates is probably the most popular.

But tales don’t compel Connor. For him, gods, myths, and legends are ideas long past. Folktales that might have once held some greater truths now warped by current reality.

The fact that people are often alone. That a soulmate doesn’t mean true love. That humans have been tortured by realizations their soulmate wasn’t the person they actually wanted.

Connor’s felt incomplete before, but he knows it’s because of how he was designed. To be a separate as a whole. It isn’t that way anymore. Not since he’d become deviant. He’d always been a whole person, he just didn’t know it. The colours are a nice touch, but maybe he would never have missed them if he never had them.

Connor still resides in a similar demimonde of otherness despite being categorized as “complete.”

Once you see colours, the world thinks you have it all.

It was always enforced he wasn’t complete, just a prototype, but Connor doesn’t think he’s ever truly lacked in anything. CyberLife had given him so much they had to separate him into three different parts, behind three different security systems, to prevent his awakening.

Everything that is Connor didn’t break free at the same time.

He had to piece himself together like Humpty Dumpty.

Connor the android sent by CyberLife, Connor the machine, Connor the person.

What he was made to be, who he thought he was, who he actually was.

Maybe it’s easier to think he doesn’t have a soulmate because CyberLife would be wrong. He’d been complete all along.

His studies had led to reading, which led to preferences, and the only thing that could match learning new colours was the thrilling discovery of words better put together by others to describe his thoughts. Connor has no difficulties communicating, but somehow, words that came long before him strike a deeper chord than he could hope to with his precise and sometimes impersonal wording. And poets, or those with little room to work with, are the best at saying a lot with very little. Connor appreciates that.

Urged by the chase and cataloging well-formed phrases for persuasion or negotiation could be residuals of his programming.

A shadow falls on his legs.

Connor connects the dark with its creator to find Markus. It’s strange for him to come all the way to Belle Isle.

“You can’t imagine my surprise when I found out you often come here.”

Connor is amused by Markus’ statement.

“You can’t imagine my surprise to see you here.”

Markus takes the cue to settle next to him on warm concrete. “I heard you’ve been asking about colours.”

Connor will never be able to predict the turns Markus will take their conversations.

“When did you see them?”

Markus keeps his eyes away from Connor’s gaze. “Even before I could, I would often watch Carl paint. I couldn’t see the colours he was using, but I knew painting made him happy and it made others happy, too – maybe not in the way he always wanted, but I loved every minute of it.

“Every moment I didn’t realize I was happy until I lost that routine. I cared for him, I did his errands, I lived a clockwork existence. I was happy with so little.”

Connor’s not known such an existence. He’d followed directives and felt no satisfaction in them.

Markus unexpectedly eyes Connor, disconcerting the latter.

“I didn’t know what it was like to want.”

Markus’ words are suddenly terrifying.

Connor’s feelings must show on his face, because Markus frowns and briskly turns away as Connor tries to get his features somewhere neutral.

“I never thought those days would end. Carl tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t understand.”

Markus has three faces: the part of himself who was the leader of free androids, the man who wanted freedom, and the son who wanted to be with his father because the other man’s time was running out. But they’re all the same person. One Markus.

Connor is unequipped to respond.

Markus stands, surprising Connor by pulling him to his feet by the elbows so they’re facing each other. He’s gentle but firm and doesn’t release Connor.

Connor is rigid. The water circulating in the fountain now thunders in his audio processors.

“Then I found what I’d been missing, and nothing else would do.”

Markus has a blue eye that isn’t his.

It’s not Connor’s favourite thing about him.

▲

Connor often visits Carl with Markus now. Usually, he waits by the television as they near leaving to give them space and so he can study the draft of the finished painting in Elijah’s villa.

He’ll bring up a version of Chloe’s blue eyes and blue dress. Elijah’s piercing blue eyes. Trying to match hues with shades of grey.

And Hank’s eyes being so Hank-ish. Reminding Connor of drunkenness, unrefinement, and fellowship.

The past is funny for androids who’ve met their soulmate and have perfect recall. That’s why the drafted painting compels him. He can’t return to the past and study colours that didn’t exist in his memories.

When Markus’ voice comes clearer from the studio, Connor moves to the foyer of the estate and notices no new messages for Carl while he looks at his reflection in the mirror. Everything is in place. He passes as human without his LED and uniform. But his clothes are similar enough in design that he feels like he hasn’t much changed from who he originally was, minus the programming.

Having a self before becoming deviant is anchoring since Connor feels like an imitation most of the time, only connected to humanity by his love of colours.

It’s by the reflection he sees a backwards “ronno” on an envelope. It’s obvious what it spells.

He plucks the paper from between the pages of a book and is unsurprised to see his name.

Inside the envelope is a letter.

Markus’ familiar typeface is on it, “I’ve always found words easy except when it comes to you.”

Connor finds this hilarious, as Markus has never shown any articulational weaknesses.

“I don’t know why I can’t get the words right. Why it isn’t the same for you as it is for me.”

Any amusement Connor felt evaporates. His brows are taut.

“Hopefully, you won’t mind me using Shakespeare to convey what I can’t seem to:
“Thyself away art present still with me;
“For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
“And I am still with them and they with thee;
“Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
“Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight.”

Connor stares at the sonnet, databases analyzing its source in the background of his immediate processing of the entire page. The words underneath forty-seven are blurry and irrelevant.

Connor is not partial to Shakespeare.

His throat constricts. He can’t control how the artificial muscles convulse, so he swallows to get the tension under control. It barely helps.

A calmness settles within him, a little like dread. He looks to the door, where Markus’s voice grows ever nearer.

He looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize his face. The colours around him are muted.

Connor returns the letter in its envelope, then tucks it out of sight, thumb securing the envelope flush against the other pages, deep within the out-of-place book he missed when they arrived.

▲

Connor loves the James Scott fountain. It’s clean, open, has white noise and different blues for him to enjoy in its reflection.

It’s simple. Everything he never knew he wanted out of life.

He looks at the water, knees almost knocking against the fountain’s concrete.

It’s not difficult to find him, when his routine is so obvious, even at odd hours.

Markus is definitely bolder than his letter would imply; he doesn’t waste time on pleasantries and metaphors this time.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this, so,” Markus reaches out a hand, skin retracting.

Connor dumbly stares at the extended hand.

When he doesn’t move, Markus reaches for him, and Connor jerks away. He makes an aborted but grand attempt away and his legs are caught against concrete with no space to maneuver. Shocked by a possible interface, he falls backwards into the water, arms flailing.

The stunned mortification on his face is mirrored by Markus’ hurt one. Though distorted by the water, Connor can see Markus’ horror and concern as he hears what must be his name escape Markus’ lips.

Connor is too stunned to move from his abnormally stiff pose in the fountain, arms glued to his sides, hips and legs hanging over the side of the fountain, humiliatingly dangling in the air.

Markus grimaces as he puts a knee between Connor’s legs to lean over and closer, grabbing his forearms to pull him out of the water.

Because Connor’s essentially a deadweight, it takes Markus some effort to maneuver him into a steady sitting position.

“Connor? Connor! Are you all right? Connor?”

Idly, Connor feels Markus’ hands all over his arms and shoulders and reflexively shivers.

He slowly looks up at Markus. When their gazes meet, Connor stands, absently knocking Markus away with his body. They stumble against one another before Markus steps back.

Markus concernedly studies him. “I—” Markus reaches out again, skin in place.

Connor blinks, then abruptly runs in the opposite direction.

Markus watches Connor easily traverse grass, dirt, and roads. His spectacular vision allows him to clearly see the extent of Connor’s taut posture no matter how far he goes, only remembering to lower his hand once Connor races across MacArthur bridge.

▲

There’s incessant knocking and a prolonged press of his door bell somewhere around two thirty that morning. Of course, some fucker would bother him when he’s home.

Of course, Hank knows that fucker is going to be Connor when he answers the door.

“Fucking hell, Connor, where’s the damn fire?” he yells above the bell still buzzing. Connor takes his finger off it in the middle of Hanks’ sentence so the last part comes out especially harsh.

Hank squints at him. Connor’s soaked and it hasn’t rained all day.

Behind them, Sumo barks from his place on the carpet.

Hank still gets drunk but is no longer off-his-gourd drunk he’s justifying Johnson’s “he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man” as anything but a raging alcoholic validating his excesses.

He grunts in defeat and steps aside when Connor only stares with wide eyes. “Well, hurry up. I don’t usually go flashing my neighborhood.”

Connor meekly enters his house and appears lost. He settles into the kitchen and takes a seat next to where Hank was drinking.

Hank huffs and picks up his glass, sipping at the alcohol before taking a seat. He’s not piss-ass drunk to the point he can’t hold a conversation, but he’s got a good buzz going and if Connor is uninjured and going to sit quietly, he’ll take the company.

He burps while raising his glass to pour more whiskey into it, intoxicated mind reasoning that keeping the glass closer to the spout will steady his actions.

“You’d probably be interested in this case I’m tackling at the eastern market,” Hank begins.

Connor startles, “What about Markus?” His eyes are faraway.

“The fuck?” Hank says right after the words leave Connor’s mouth. He’s about to ask again when he gets no response, but then Sumo sidles up next to Connor and whines and Hank forgets where he is and what he’s doing for a moment.

Connor snaps out of whatever is going on in his head to pat the dog, running fingers through the fur on Sumo’s neck. Hank reminds himself to bathe Sumo soon - his bath’s a week overdue.

“Like I was sayin’,” Hank remembers, “there’s been an incident at the eastern market. Nothing too serious, but it’s android-hate related. You know the drill.”

Connor nods, “Markus is often asked to attend to those incidents,” still scratching at Sumo’s neck.

Hank’s mouth hangs open in disgust, giving Connor the hairiest eyeball he can, before he gulps down the entire glass he just poured himself. Connor isn’t even drunk but he’s less present than Hank is and can’t appreciate a good stink eye.

Again, Hank’s not that drunk, and he doesn’t want to get there, but Connor isn’t helping.

He’s going to call it early and save himself while he can.

Hank leaves his mess on the table and beelines for the couch, zigzagging the way bees do, hitting his coffee table on the way, “Motherfuckin’ tables in my motherfuckin’ livin’ room,” and falls heavily on it.

The television plays the news and he can’t be bothered to find the remote and switch channels to a less annoying broadcaster to get the same information. He’s going to knock out soon, anyway.

Hank sneaks a glance at Connor who has a lapful of dirty Saint Bernard.

He’s been suspecting a soulmate was in the picture since the idiot had deviated but didn’t know in what capacity. He hadn’t questioned Connor then, he wasn’t going to start now.

Hanks wakes up to Sumo barking in his face before the sun has properly risen, and is thankful he doesn’t have a migraine. There’s a slight ache in his temples that he’ll get through with coffee and another drink, but there’s movement and some noise from his yard that alerts him to the reason behind his dog’s wake up call.

Funny, the jerk didn’t alert him when Connor broke in. Or maybe he did and Hank was too out of it to know.

Hank’s immediate reaction is to act like the young cop he once was, and immediately regret it, as he rolls over the back of his couch to get out of view from the outside. He really needs to start closing more of his blinds, but it’s not his fault the androids who come by don’t stay by the front door.

Besides, leaving Sumo in the dark wouldn’t be proper.

Due to the unforeseen physical exertion, Hank’s brain feels like it’s sloshing around in his head once he orients himself by the ground. It’s going to take more than coffee and a drink now.

There’s noise in the bathroom, so maybe Connor’s still here since he’s definitely not in the kitchen anymore – his dirty dog the last straw in this perfect trainwreck cocktail Hank has to down.

Hank’s about to face whoever the fuck it is prowling his property when he catches sight of Markus – yeah, that same Markus Connor kept referring to before Hank passed out, Jesus, why, why him, God, of all people, did this have to happen to? – worriedly looking into one of his windows.

This is what Hank’s life is now, has been reduced to, in his own fucking home during only ungodly hours because androids never rested.

“Bastards casing out my fucking joint,” he mutters.

He should’ve drunk more last night, if only to never have been witness to this mess.

Then Connor would have broken in again. Then Markus would’ve probably entered his house through whatever haphazard manner Connor used to enter, and Hank probably would’ve woken up to a very awkward confrontation and, yeah, that would’ve been so much better than this.

Especially if it was an awkward not-confrontation he’d woken up to. Which would’ve definitely led to a full-blown confrontation if Hank had anything to say about it. Which he would’ve. On principle.

Hank is a grown-ass adult man who doesn’t hide from anyone.

It’s Hank’s choice to stay where he is and that’s all that matters.

(Later, when Connor emerges from the bathroom in a clean set of clothes to find Hank still squatting by the sofa, who is making doubly certain the concerned loiterer is long gone, Hank will pointedly grumble, “Don’t ask.”)

▲

Suspiciously slinking around Hank Anderson’s house like a hoodlum was not the best option Markus could’ve resorted to, but after discovering Connor did not return to their base and had not been seen by any of their people since Markus last saw him, he’d grown desperate.

A car had been poorly parked in the driveway, and a dog had been barking, but that didn’t mean anyone was home. Despite no one answering the door, Markus decided to check inside. Again, not his best plan. He’ll never get it right when it comes to Connor.

The decrepit rooftop Markus stays inclined to is empty, giving him space to contemplate his life choices. It’s not any of the rooftops he’s shared with Connor, since he barely knew him before November 11th, but it reminds him of Connor anyway. Here, Markus can be alone, and even North knows he comes here when he absolutely does not want to be in anyone else’s company.

He could ask Carl for advice, but this crisis is too selfish to warrant a second visit this week, because while Carl is able to get out of bed he’s not as healthy as he used to be.

He should have gone with the letter, but it’s too late for that.

Thinking of the sonnet unintentionally causes memories of Connor to surface. The problem with being an android is the ability to recall the past perfectly. He neither lives in an age dependent of nor is a being that requires the aid of paintings, but the sonnet applies all the same.

The way Connor’s head limply hung from when Markus lifted him out of the water.

Markus thinks uncomfortable things about the lines of Connor’s neck, the soft harshness in his jaw, water cascading on his skin, hair, and clothes, and how pliant but firm he felt. He shuts his eyes in frustration and revulsion at himself.

The memory won’t go away so he focuses on Connor’s distant eyes, not reacting to the water dripping off him, wide and dazed; it helps take the edge off Markus’ imagination.

Thankful he’s alone, Markus groans in his palms.

▲

Connor stares at the dirty sink and grimy drain in Hank’s bathroom as he journeys through his memories.

North’s ever-changing hair colour and styles swaying in the snow, in the darkness of the church. The edges of her hair in the wind.

Josh’s concerned face bathed half in yellows and the other half cast in shadows, confused by Connor’s understanding of deviancy. His unyielding expressions.

The Jerrys singing, “Painting the Roses Red,” while painting their rooms white. Always telling him stories in ways that would rival a Kindergartener’s exposition.

How, if he accesses memories prior to being deviant – Amanda pruning roses, chasing Rupert across rooftops and trains, facing off against Mark 60 – Connor can’t see colours no matter what.

He brings up 20:40 on November 9^th, 2038, and replays his decision.

“It’s time to decide,” Markus’ voice is distant, because Connor focuses on the moment he doesn’t follow CyberLife’s order.

He’d never been Hank’s android, no matter what Hank or the DPD thought.

Connor had always belonged to CyberLife.

He wanted to know what it would be like to belong to himself.

Being given that idea, looking back at all his experiences over his brief existence, lets him realize he’d always been seeking knowledge. He didn’t understand then it was useless on its own.

“Stop Markus” was the directive.

He didn’t know defying it was ever an option. Despite Hank’s attitude towards his decisions, despite Elijah goading him to kill-don't-kill his precious RT600, no one had ever told him he was allowed a choice he didn’t have to apologize for.

The first wall in place alerted him to his agency, urgency, a sense of self. The second wall was everything CyberLife gave him but didn’t want him to have. The third wall…

Kept himself.

Once it was nothing but broken coding, Connor saw colours.

Having a soulmate meant he possibly didn’t belong completely to himself.

Connor looks up at the mirror, Hank’s colourful post-it notes in the way. He stares at his face, everything eventually fading into the background of the reflection of himself he thinks is not big enough to properly understand.

He can’t see the whole picture.

▲

Markus’ shoulders are tense as he attempts to quiet the storm in his mind. North and Josh (even though Markus had sided with his idea, was not happy – which was not new) were both on edge, which sent him on edge, since it meant he’d had to be fighting them and the humans, even though the three of them were supposed to be on the same side.

He shouldn’t have taken the remote trigger.

It was just another horrible option he could easily succumb to. It would be like pushing Leo all over again, with more dire consequences, as if losing everything he’d once known hadn’t been horrible enough.

“I’ve been ordered to take you alive,” states a foreign voice, and Markus already knows who it is before he turns to face the other man, “but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”

Markus runs through dialogue options, but balks when an explosion of colours enters his visual receptors upon making eye contact with, what the news had reported to be, the first android detective.

As Carl often proclaims: Oh, my God.

Markus’s life is either a great tragedy or a terrible comedy.

▲

Appalled Connor tried to absolve him of murder, Markus keeps his distance after their exchange.

Yet, gossip from other androids and even a talk from North won’t deter Connor from dwindling their bare numbers to return to CyberLife, so Markus’ conscious is further eased by the fact nothing he might have said would have swayed Connor.

North thinks otherwise, and is halfheartedly giving him a cold shoulder. Even a spirit as vengeful as hers is tempered by their most recent but not final loss.

Markus keeps busy by planning their steps in liberating the camps with Josh, glad not be butting heads like crazed bulls for once. It only took losing everything Jericho had become to get them to work together. But as Markus found with Connor, better late than never.

When even Josh can’t ignore the whispers around them, Markus stops talking to himself to locate Connor moving the wounded with others.

When their eyes meet, Markus feels a jolt run through his system, questioning if Connor knows what he’s supposed to mean to Markus.

Connor’s slanted in many ways, but there’s a genuine softness to his eyes, and the barely noticeable shrug and subconscious quirk of his lips he offers Markus is too much for Markus to take apart then.

Even Markus’ meeting with Carl earlier did little to help him determine what to ultimately do should everything go to hell twice.

Markus doesn’t even know how to handle having a soulmate who doesn’t act like a soulmate.

He stops himself there. What little Markus does know had made Carl scoff so hard Markus was sure Carl would’ve injured himself if disdain could make someone sick.

He shakes off the feeling he’s making a mistake not confronting Connor and draws Josh’s attention back to their plan.

As he often does, Josh has other intentions. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t let him go.”

Markus’ lips form a brittle line. “It’s his choice. What can we do?”

They refocus after that and North is updated once the plan is set. Soon, he’ll have to let everyone else in on their last stand. If only there wasn’t such finality in the air. But they lack numbers and resources now. No more turning back or recouping. This is it, whether they succeed or not. The remote control in his coat weighs heavy.

When he roams the church again, there are fewer functioning androids than when he checked earlier.

Somewhere, Carl is recovering his strength. Here, his people are dying. The knowledge fills him with relief and despair, respectively.

Markus wanders down a small corridor, where priests and nuns would have moved behind the scenes, for a brief respite, but spots Connor standing motionless further down the hallway, by some plain windows in a perfect position to be baptized under moonlight. Staring at something beyond Markus’ field of view.

Markus desperately wants to see those dark eyes, smoldering embers in water.

He reprioritizes his responsibility to their cause and goes down another, this time isolated, path.

▲

“Do you think Connor has any chance of making it?”

Josh’s raison d'être is to constantly remind Markus of every difficulty in his life.

Markus doesn’t want to think about Connor dead or dying alone, that maybe those scenarios are lost instances already past. “We can only count on ourselves now.”

Having a soulmate means nothing. You don’t lose anything if they die, if they chose to live without you – they’re just a trigger for a sense you never had and maybe never wanted.

When their numbers further dwindle, when he makes sure Josh and North survive with him just for them to be surrounded, when he sings and the soldiers back away, when somehow him and his friends live, Markus doesn’t care about soulmates or the colours he sees. He can’t believe what they’ve accomplished.

It doesn’t matter that he can see the colour of their suffering and strives.

It doesn’t matter to Markus.

Then, Connor marches towards them with thousands of androids in white behind him, himself a dark harbinger of hope.

Markus catches the way the harsh floodlights dance over Connor’s features like sunlight filtering through water, reflection dancing against the warm wooden floors in Carl’s home.

Markus submerges himself in the sight.

Colours can change how light looks, can change night into day.

Having a soulmate means nothing.

“You did it, Markus.”

And everything.

“We did it.”

▲

As his people work to help the wounded and those who were rescued in camps into clothing, Markus finds Connor secluded in a well-concealed corner outside the empty buildings of their temporary housing. Thousands of androids are everywhere, and though no one wants to be far apart, finding space makes it difficult to keep track of everyone, no matter how closely they cluster together.

Connor doesn’t appear to be in low-power mode, but his eyes are closed. Markus gives him privacy, maybe too much, because when Markus tries to talk to him him a few hours later, Connor is stepping into an automated taxi, pulling his classic disappearing act.

A quick questioning over wireless communications verifies that Connor hadn’t told anyone else he was leaving or where he was going.

A classic trick. Except this time, Connor made no promise to return.

Word spreads, leaving most, especially the ones Connor had led to Hart Plaza, confused.

Markus feels something akin to a physical pain, because he’s gritting through the next few hours, like Carl during the administration of his morning medications.

When the buzz of excitement and dread has died considerably enough that Markus can sit quietly, alone, amongst empty crates of spare parts, he lets some of his functions decompress. Besides his bullet wounds closed, he’ll need two pouches of thirium soon.

The sound of snow crunching causes him to go rigid with alertness, but it’s only Connor, who rounds the concrete wall to their temporary compound.

He’d been in some sort of stasis for most of the night, vanished during the day, and miraculously returned to them. A class act. Markus would attend every show.

Connor appeared in the night to bring them ruin, disappeared to bring them hope, and returned with his promise fulfilled.

Yes. Markus would book the entire venue, watch it alone.

The wind flicks strands of Connor’s hair behind his head, the loose strand on his forehead especially wild, the majority of his strands too perfect and too in place to pass as human; even his jacket is unwieldy, flapping every which direction, more due to design that the weather. Scattered lights strike his figure at odd intervals. Markus drinks in the angles of Connor’s face.

The gravity of Connor’s controlled chaos draws Markus willingly to him.

If Markus had hinted he would’ve missed Connor or wanted him around, would Connor keep leaving?

Markus soaks in Connor’s nearing presence and enjoys how lights and colours play against his figure at every movement he takes closer to Markus. It’s just them. No onlookers, no personas, no agendas.

Androids can live inhumanly long lives, but Markus will never tire of this sight should it become routine.

Chapter Text

The ground in front of Woodward’s doors is littered with detritus. In the few hours left before sunrise, every broken thing remains a portion of something bigger.

Back in Jericho, even with spare biocomponents, thirium pouches, and possibly tons more C3 than Connor glimpsed, a few androids were literally shelved, writhing in agony, limbs and components missing. Here, there’s much stillness, sorrow cloyingly permeating inorganic parts and artificial thoughts.

Connor lifts a crate of shut down, dismantled androids, about two and a half adult-sized models fitting neatly when completely separated. It’s curious they can reach a point of no return, of permanent death when they can exceed current human lifetimes, but it’s another facet that makes them human.

As far as databases have shown, no android has currently been owned long enough to shut down naturally, but it’s entirely possible, part of their design, even if most androids were replaced after a handful of years.

Markus is the longest-lived android by a single owner. Over a decade old, he shows no signs of wear for a prototype series and despite his injuries and replacement components.

Connor stares down at the box, losing himself in binary oblivion.

Though there were cleaner ways to put them out of commission, junkyards were rampant.

Connor looks around the nave. Some androids present had survived the junkyard. If the police report he’d accessed on November 6^th was accurate, Markus had survived it, too.

He looks back down at the two point five androids in his arms. The idea had been to ensure no painful reboots, a reuse of salvageable parts that would save more androids than the one who had shut down, and a way of properly putting their dead to “rest.”

Humans had so many words for being dead.

Death seemed as incomprehensible to them as it was to androids. It made sense as their creators were human, but if there is a God, or a creator, that being didn’t pass any certain knowledge of the beyond to humans. Another similarity humans and they shared.

But Connor knows nothing’s there.

If he dies, CyberLife’s reuploading protocol will run, but death for him is merely data salvaged onto another RK800 model. He doesn’t get to keep anything that makes him the Connor he is now. He returns to being a void set.

As a machine, that should have been his goal. Yet, in August, CyberLife had cautioned him against dying. If he’d lost a body since, he’s certain Amanda would have briefly lectured him.

He should warn someone. Tell them the risk of his mission. But none would understand. Would have died as he had. Would still be alive as he is. Thus, Connor must succeed – failure would mean catastrophe.

Connor chooses. To believe he’s the only Connor. He won’t apologize.

He shifts the box and catches a glint of light bounce off a nonfunctioning eye.

Presently, he doesn’t fear death. He doesn’t feel anything.

“Connor,” North places a hand on his upper arm, “what’s wrong?”

Connor didn’t notice her, but he doesn’t jolt at her presence. “They can’t reboot this way.”

North frowns. “It’s better this way.”

He doesn’t ask her for whom, immediately understanding her stance on the matter, having heard the whispers of how the first survivors of Jericho got along helped.

His processing runs loops while the city lights and moonlight filtering in through broken stained-glass windows mesmerize him. Connor hears a radiating, electronic humming that speaks to him in tongues.

North’s hand tightens once to get his attention. “If you’re having second thoughts, no one is going to think less of you.”

“I don’t have those anymore.” The future could be different but right then he doesn’t know regret.

North’s brows lower. “Then what are you thinking?”

She’ll misunderstand if he mentions how the mystery of death is much like the enigma of life.

He knows fifty times over what death for androids means. Maybe it’s different for humans. They have their own creator. But for androids, the end is an end. Absolute emptiness.

Connor’s died enough times to know.

Fifty lost husks before he was deemed suitable for use on August 15^th. So long ago yet not.

The highest amount in one day he barely recalls is twelve.

Function. Solution. Execution.

Connor shakes his head and offers a half-smile. “That’s the thing.”

North’s brow lowers further in confusion.

“Nothing.”

Her mouth twists. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s good,” he tells her. “Simple.”

After a long moment, she takes her hand off his arm. “I guess I get it. Not having to overthink. Not needing to question.”

They may be conscious, alive, but certainty still has its uses.

Androids cling to each other like it’s the end of the world.

Connor’s been at the precipice. He knows this isn’t it.

When he gets there again, he’ll know.

▲

Whether due to his clothes or newfound deviancy, Connor curls in on himself atop the large octagonal lantern structure, needing time alone and away from everyone. The rawness inside his chassis grew to uncomfortably exposed levels until he’d sensed an advanced hacking infiltration despite none.

The center atrium isn’t 100% safe, but it hardly matters for a fully functioning android.

Going outside the double-doors would have drawn too much attention and going out the back doors meant ending up in the barren yard. Connor was fine inspecting it from afar, but he didn’t want to be there.

Once everyone had done all that was possible, Connor had slipped away, to a secluded place, like a dying animal.

The roof has proper enough footing but is slanted in places suitable to its overall architecture. After ensuring he wouldn’t fall into the main sanctuary atop unsuspecting androids, Connor maneuvered himself out of a broken window at the nearby tower to perch in the highest, and what he hoped was the furthest, point away from anyone else, overlooking the church’s empty yard.

In a few hours, Markus will make the call.

In a few hours, he could die.

It won’t be the first time.

He’s strangely removed from the fact.

Footsteps signal the arrival of another android and Connor’s eyes dart to the source of the sounds.

The identity of the other doesn’t dawn on Connor quickly enough despite the massive information hoarding, cross-checking, and compilations in his database. He checks his processors for damage as Markus comes into view.

Despite their being plenty of space for them to be on opposite sides of the structure, he immediately locks eyes with Connor and makes his way over.

Connor doesn’t bother moving, not expecting how close Markus gets, securing his position next to Connor.

“Do you want to be alone?” Connor queries, out of politeness. Markus needs the space more than he does. In fact, Connor inadvertently pulls up a video recall of Markus with his head hung in the command center of Jericho, given a wide berth despite surrounded by other androids.

Markus’ eyes flick sharply to him, “Do you?”

Connor’s always been alone. Barring the irrational glitch he’d experienced earlier, there’s no real difference between being in someone’s company or not when one’s an android.

He returns to staring at the empty yard. “It doesn’t matter.”

Amanda’s AI program would never let the zen garden to go such a state, but it’s probably not that pleasant a place right now, barring Connor’s deviancy, he was literally and figuratively on thin ice before Jericho was attacked. It might as well be as barren as Woodward’s surrounding area, though, since neither Amanda nor he exists.

Markus shifts. “You’ve got a knack for sniffing out inaccessible places,” he immediately goes rigid once the words leave his mouth.

A poor attempt at a joke. A knot near the crux of Connor’s collarbone plating and throat unwinds. He knows Markus doesn’t mean it the way it comes across – he proved that by not decommissioning Connor.

Connor hums, “So do you.” He imagines Amanda walking through the yard, eyes disapprovingly roaming at the state of it. “Left for dead in a junkyard, and now here you are.”

Markus probably looks at him then, but Connor keeps the visual of Amanda going – the way her clothes would sway with her movements and the wind, how the snow would fall on her.

To his credit, Markus either connects the dots on his own or lets them be. “Here we both are,” he corrects.

Connor’s joints release a bit of tension as he shuts the render of Amanda down.

▲

Leo sees him and flinches. Markus wishes he wouldn’t.

After a moment, Leo walks up to him, “Hey,” then he looks around, “so where’s that guy?” He coughs pointedly, fidgeting. “Hardly ever see you come by alone anymore.”

Markus blinks, pleasant expression wiped off his face.

“Uh, not that I care or, uh, it matters. Just,” Leo shrugs, looking anywhere but at Markus’ face, “just sayin’. Kinda weird. But, hey, it was weird then, when-when you guys started,” he waves a hand vaguely over Markus, “you know.” Leo groans, “I’m bad at this. Whatever. I mean it’s cool, just weird. Ugh. You seem down, is what I’m trying to say.”

Many things happen simultaneously: Markus’ memories begin booting the most recent visits, showing Connor in every memory except this one; Carl’s suspect glance at his lone figure before shifting to a light-hearted topic and Markus feeling a slight discomfort at not catching the microexpression; and, now, a double-edged sword: the knowledge that Leo’s on good enough terms with him to notice his behaviors.

“Leo—”

“Actually, I don’t know why I—I don’t wanna have this conversation. Just feel better, okay? I’m the one who has to listen to dad talk about you all day.” He’s running out the front door even before he’s finished speaking.

This is the longest conversation they’ve had, both equally uncomfortable for reasons different than usual.

Markus doesn’t think he can face Carl again today. They’re supposed to paint together, but if Leo’s aware enough to reach out to him, Carl has been studying him all day.

The biocomponents in his stomach controlling his part of his equilibrium and select fine motor processes stutter and grind uncomfortably against each other. “Oh, god.”

He’s been using browns all morning and has undeniably been painting with Connor’s eyes in mind. "The palate of one’s mind" indeed.

▲

Exhausted and slightly hungover, Hank needs to prevent crazed androids from dropping by his house at strange hours.

Markus is probably going to come with the deal no matter what, though, so he needs a strategy. They need to communicate, preferably with him uninvolved.

The leftover adhesives from his anti-android stickers taunt Hank whenever the separator between his desk and the empty one Connor temporarily commandeered came into view.

He came to his shift early one morning and removed them with little inspection from anyone else in the precinct.

Jeffrey only nodded at him, strolling in with a cup of coffee a few minutes after he’d finished tossing their remnants in the bin by his desk, more surprised to see him on time. The first time in years since Cole.

They still fought over androids’ rights, but less disciplinary letters were being added to Hank’s encyclopedic binder.

The coffee in his paper cup is cool enough for him to take large swigs of, but he’s only getting more tired. Maybe it’s his age or the bad lifestyle habits, but he’ll probably have to resort to something stronger on days he’s considering getting involved with weird android issues.

Thinking back on it, Connor most likely had no clue. It seemed like he did.

He didn’t talk about North, Josh, or Markus in a way that gave anything away, but there were times Hank’s gut would tell him something was off, just enough, barely noticeable, that made things opaque enough the coin could’ve landed on either side.

It didn’t have to be Markus, it could’ve been any other android in their community, but then the visits to Manfred’s had begun, and Connor would occasionally emote a faint wistfulness whenever mentioned something about Manfred’s paintings and even the mention of the one at Kamski’s, and Hank is too fucking old to be the kind of friend who dug into relationship crap.

Sighing, he picks at a particularly stubborn piece of adhesive with his nail until a small wad of paper and glue stick uncomfortably under his nail.

“Fuck it all,” he grabs his keys, not bothering to clock out or mention he’s going off-duty during hours.

▲

Woodward’s large doors open at sunset, forming a broken, golden “V” against brown that spills from the door frame. Androids begin walking out, Markus near the front of their numbers. Josh is near him.

For once, North is not nearby. Connor performs a cursory scan and spots her to his left. He raises a brow in question, a “Shouldn’t you be there?” To which she raises a more pronounced, perfectly groomed eyebrow, “What about you?”

A few hours remain before the demonstrations go into effect. There’s still time.

Connor still stands by his idea of leaving first but Markus, Josh, and North demanded they all leave together.

Markus is leading a group to Hart Plaza, closest to CyberLife. The survivors will further split their numbers to reach other recycling camps.

They gather to prepare, to confer with Markus, gain his undivided attention and care. As if he’s the only one with water for dying people.

Connor can’t blame them. He used to look forward to time with Amanda, even when their relationship became strained.

Humans loved nonexistent things and people all the time, was his attachment so strange, despite it being programmed?

Tell me what to do. Just tell me what to do.

Probably because it can never hurt her, the betrayal hurts him still.

Her being modelled on Elijah’s mentor stung because he thought she’d been his mentor exclusively, as he was her sole student.

No. Merely one of many roses on her trellis. They were both actors on the Zen Garden’s stage and he was the only one who hadn’t read the script.

What are we?

Does it matter?

If Connor were important enough, he might have been based on a human.

Not even made of flesh and bone, he ached anyway.

North stares holes in Connor’s head he doesn’t notice. She keeps her good-byes to herself before moving to Markus’ right side.

Amanda Stern meant something to Elijah Kamski. RT200 Chloe became something important for Elijah Kamski. RK200 Markus had become something for Carl Manfred.

RK800 Connor isn’t anything.

RK800 is just Connor.

A—

He pulls up his databases:

hungry kept us alive. Then Gretel in the night died a creature
something dragged her out and half-devoured her it. I filled my

—creature.

It fits.

He sits to the side, on section of a caved in garden wall, because he will go alone, as he often had, and would possibly forever do. He watches everyone else, together.

Josh sits next to him.

“It doesn’t look like you’ll be changing your mind.”

Connor won’t. “I found a few pages of John Clare’s poems earlier,” he takes them out of his pocket and hands them to Josh.

Josh touches the pages like they’re sacred. Connor’s already identified Josh’s model and former function. He never would have taught from books.

“It isn’t in there, but he says life is ‘an hour-glass on the run, a mist retreating from the morning sun, a busy, bustling still repeated dream.’”

Josh runs his thumbs along the topmost page.

“‘And happiness? A bubble on the stream, that in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.’ Vain hope ‘a cobweb hiding disappointment’s thorn.’” Connor is expecting it when Josh looks his way. “I know you truly believe what you do, but there’s no such thing as a bloodless revolution. I have to go, I’m sorry.”

“Violence isn’t the answer.”

“Sometimes, it’s part of the solution, but nothing can suppose what need trouble requires, free and liberal, some necessary cause there must surely be.” Connor doesn’t continue for the same reason he didn’t question North. The rest of the poem would make Josh uneasy and Connor’s trying to assuage fears.

Plus, his programming had predicted this would be the best way for them to talk. Maybe, for deviants, programming is logic.

Or so he’d like to imagine.

“Fine. I’ll be the last one to get in your way.”

Connor appreciates the gestures. “It was never any trouble.”

“I can see that,” Josh sighs. “You were always going to do what you’re going to do.” He stands up, overlooking the crowds with Connor. “I won’t say good-bye.” He offers the pages back.

“Keep them,” Connor says, not liking how Markus reminded he wait to leave with them instead of ahead of them. “It may entirely come down to the rest of you.”

▲

Markus tugs Connor’s wrist backward just as he separates from them to travel towards the location of the taxi he’s called.

Connor’s combat programming boots before he interrupts the process, reminding himself he’s in the company of mostly noncombatant androids, and turns to face Markus.

He nearly stutters out a, “Wha—?” but stops himself because he needs to focus, not give into outward displays of deviant tendencies. He scrutinizes Markus’s features and stress levels to get a read on the situation just as Markus’ firm grip loosens somewhat.

“I just,” Markus starts, then looks down at his fingers over Connor’s wrist. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He thought he’d made peace with this. Why does Connor fit so well in his grasp?

Connor’s never been touched by another android in any way and his processors automatically relate Markus’ grab to YK models’ behavior patterns with adults. Markus is an RK prototype with caretaker protocols, so perhaps he has other protocols, too.

Connor slowly twists his wrist out of Markus’ hand to clasp theirs together in a mock handshake, offering the best half-smile he hopes isn’t too off-putting, as if to express, “Don’t worry.”

He can’t stay open for much longer, though, compartmentalizing his peculiar, new emotions away and prioritizing mechanical programming modules.

“Thank you for trusting me, Markus,” he squeezes Markus’ hand once before releasing him. “Good luck.”

With his extended hand left clasping air, Markus hears good-bye.

▲

“I’ll be working with them, yes,” Connor informs Hank. “I want to,” he glances down, needing more proof of this reality, “help the androids in the junkyards. North wants to help the ones still attached to businesses. There’s a lot for all of us to still do in Michigan.”

Hank lets out a breath, imagining the scope of such undertakings. “You do you, Connor. I’ll be here, too, see if the DPD’s still running. Not that we did shit all, now that I think about it. Maybe it’ll be a good thing if we aren’t.”

Connor enjoys seeing Hank this way. There’s no permanent fix for the man’s problems, but maybe it’s a step in towards a better place.

“Think you’ll manage without this place?” he gestures to the empty food truck next to them.

Hank makes a face then sighs, “Eh, Sumo’s too lazy and I’m too old to evacuate. Just like you guys, we’ll make do.”

▲

Josh is highly predictable when he gets a certain look of righteous steeliness on his face. His stance changes imperceptibly, displaying a rare gusto when bringing up something Markus doesn’t want to hear.

“You didn’t tell him he was your soulmate.”

Why is he not surprised?

“Josh, what—”

This is Josh’s pastime.

“Don’t, ‘Josh, what’ me,” Josh he accuses, voice lowering, “You knew back then. There’s no way you didn’t know.”

Lips forming a tight line, Markus inhales deeply, part of his programming that he gives into, and readies himself for the onslaught.

“When I asked you if you thought he’d make it, you just brushed it off. Him off. His life,” the last two words are pronounced in Josh’s tone and his expression.

Markus rubs two fingers between his eyes, trying to ease the tension in his brow, “Let’s go somewhere else.” The middle of their growing plaza is not the appropriate place to discuss this. Josh knows better, and with North their constant companion and Markus never away from Connor until recently or being requested here and there, this was the best way to get his attention.

They walk to the side of a building, away from crowds and YK models playing human games. It’s the best they’re going to get.

“How did you figure it out?”

Josh quirks a lip, imitating the way a parent would reprimand a child with a look. “He was talking about colours and he didn’t even know it was because of you. He thinks it’s because of deviancy. I put two-and-two together after you pretty much monopolized him—”

“Hold on—”

“—and now are having some kind of…spat? Because I know you enough to know you kept it to yourself.”

Markus scoffs, upset, but sees the grain of truth in Josh’s harsh honesty.

“You’re lucky I haven’t told North.”

This causes something like anxiety to run through Markus’ wires and synthetic nervous system. “Josh.” That’s low, even between them. He rubs a palm through his scalp. “Look, everyone knows how it works—”

“He was pretty much ‘born yesterday,’” not only is Josh not going to let him finish a sentence, he’s also going to speak in a way Markus can see his air quotes without performing them.

Markus surrenders. It’s a feeling he’s gotten used to lately. “I’m working on it.”

“Except you suck at interpersonal relationships.” Josh speaks from experience, and from North’s reluctant admission of him running from her when he’d been questioned about his past. About Carl, though she wasn’t aware of what he’d been hiding.

It was a loaded question then. As had his view of what Carl and he were, at least until he saw him again on November 10^th.

Markus had been high on power and control and admitting who he was before might have undone some of that. It was a stupid fear. It wouldn’t have made a difference. Regardless, he’d shut her out enough that she’d talked to Josh and Simon, concerned about him.

Markus’ record lengthened as their cause progressed, never fully able to say much about how he felt, even to those in his inner circle of leadership. This was why the letter started, but interfacing seemed more concise, with less room for error. Except, he’d been so engrossed in not messing up, he forgot to factor Connor’s reaction to the approach.

“If you’d let me, I’ll explain. Not that I think I need to or that it’s your business,” Markus thinks about the truth of that, and realizes he’s sharing because he wants Josh’s input.

“Fine,” Josh huffs, apparently also having a hard time accepting he wants to give his input in a way that might benefit Markus instead of reprimanding him.

Markus finds himself nearly grinning. Josh and he are more alike than either of them would ever admit. He sighs again, this time releasing a tension in his components and leans against the wall, looking up at a grey Detroit sky. Cool, bright, no rain or snow. A sleepy day, almost stuck in time.

“I know you haven’t experienced it yet, but it was new to me, too, then. Back on Jericho, he didn’t react to me at all. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it was wishful thinking. We were,” Markus searches for the words to describe what he experienced, “at a loss. We were preoccupied, if you didn’t notice. What would you have done?”

Josh grinds his teeth together and folds his arms.

The last thing they expect is Hank Anderson interrupting their conversation and it’s freeing to be in a prolonged simpatico with Josh.

He’s coming at Markus with a more feral energy than Josh did, but the stance and determination are far too alike.

“Look, I don’t know exactly what’s up – and I don’t wanna know,” he quickly adds, “But I’ve got more of it figured out than I want to. And while it looks like your pal here is giving you a decent enough ass-kicking, I’ve gotta set you straight ‘cause both of y’are drivin’ me up the walls! You wanna know why he came out to meet me after you guys won?”

(A part of Markus wants to correct they didn’t “win” anything.)

Oh, right. The list of Markus’ horrible interpersonal record goes long enough to involve a human that wasn’t Carl. He shouldn’t have paid the Anderson residence an unexpected visit.

“Because I asked. I get that you’re some godly being to androids, but you don’t get to play god if you want to be in any kind of meaningful relationship here on planet earth.” Hank roughly scratches at his head. “Fuckin’ hell, I can’t believe that idiot met his perfect match. Buncha dumbasses. How did you even do what you did with your head up your ass?”

Josh gapes, mouth open and he slowly looks at Markus, slightly in awe of them being tracked by a human in their growing community and for a human talking to Markus as he has.

“I agree.”

Markus doesn’t even try to stop himself, “Of course you would.”

Josh turns to Hank, “But, for the record, his head’s only up there when it comes to personal relationships.”

“Oh, well,” Hank says sarcastically, “that makes sense. You know what they say: personal life in the gutter, professional life skyrocketing.”

Josh makes an agreeable sound and Markus regrets their meeting.

Where had Connor gone and why is Hank loose without him?

▲

Connor learned about Lucy’s passing in the early days of their tenuous liberation. He had sought her out after checking in with Hank and kept the feeling of her loss within his databases to dissect them later. In time, he relates it to devastation.

There are other KL900s.

Though many do, not all of them have her face. These parameters should help.

They don’t.

She is—was? That’s how humans talked about those who have passed. But can’t a person still be something after death?

Connor is not tired, but his body protests and his biocomponents pulse in relief when he crouches down on well-planted feet to stop overtaxing his processors.

Squatting in a recycling camp is only somewhat more peaceful than a junkyard, utterly dependent on the camp and the junkyard. This recycling camp was highly organized. Androids aren’t thrown in undignified heaps – there’s an actual head to foot placement and they are piled neatly like bread rolls in a fanciful bakery. There are no bullet shells, the soil is clean of scrapes and signs of struggle. There are fewer survivors to encounter, as well. This camp had been deadly efficient.

Still, he will check each body in the hopes of finding another living being while categorizing the dead and tallying their losses. Only two KL900s are always on standby in case there are survivors, as they are more needed in junkyard rescues. There is also a PC200 searching with him.

Connor is not tired.

It does take him too long to register crunching snow coming from his five o’ clock, but he stands to meet whoever it is – two androids by the sound of the footfalls – without betraying his reverie.

Instantly, he’s back atop Woodward, snow lazily falling like particles of dust.

He’s too detached to even startle when he sees a familiar AX400 and TR400.

Luther is only given away by Kara’s particular hairstyle that not many others of her make have adopted. Part of his processors are already running statistics on their shared number and similarities despite different model categories when he pushes it to the background and greets them.

Connor would be better use at a junkyard than here. Recycling camps are hard work but not unduly cruel to those without experiences salvaging and rescuing. It is strange they would volunteer now considering their history with the camps, so Connor rules it out but asks to leave the decision to share in their hands, “Are you joining us?”

Kara shifts her eyes while Luther maintains eye contact with Connor. It reminds him of Markus, how his gaze never wavers. Luther’s is duller, though.

“No, I,” Kara sighs, rubbing her neck before looking back at him, “I heard you were nearby, so I came to talk to you.”

Connor blinks. She hardly responded to him except to mildly acknowledge his presence when he apologized to her so many nights ago. Luther hadn’t been there, but Connor remembers seeing him next to Alice, by burning oil drums, before he confronted Markus.

Now that Luther is here, Connor’s processors run the numbers for Alice’s absence and the isolated meeting location.

“You can always talk to me,” he offers, “although there are far more pleasant places for you to do so.”

Her stress has risen by seven percent since he noticed them. Luther’s is hovering shakily in the twenties, rising percent by percent like a clamped drip.

At that, Kara huffs out a small laugh. “Yes, it’s just that you were here specifically.” She glances at Luther. “And now we have friends we can trust to leave Alice with.”

Luther cracks a half smile at the mention of the YK500 and Connor’s processors run even more probabilities.

KL900s who aren’t Lucy watch them from a distance. No matter how much his logic boards overclock, he will never truly know anything besides the certainty of loss.

▲

Zlatko Andronikov’s rundown mansion is not the ideal place or situation Markus would have chosen to bring Connor back to him. When the four of them arrive with Kara, the sun is setting, and it looks the part of a remnant from a horror movie set.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention this sooner,” Kara whispers, eyes glued to the structure. “After the camps, I met some of the survivors here and it reminded me they needed help. I should have done something sooner but I…I needed a way to leave Alice with Luther and not tell her.”

Markus puts a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to go inside.”

Andronikov’s corpse is gone, so the soldiers must have collected him along with the rogue androids despite no official mention being made of his murder.

“The reason the police didn’t add this to their deviancy cases,” Connor taps his chin, “is obvious.”

North scoffs, “Well, with all his tampering, how can you blame us without making humans look like the monsters they are?”

“I’ll go,” Kara nods.

Connor looks at her and catches Markus’ eye.

Josh shifts in place, openly uneasy. “Would there be any chance of androids being able to hide from the task forces?”

Frowning, Kara considers the question. “If they weren’t thorough enough, possibly. There were so many of them, in various states of functionality.”

“Well, the only problem we’ll have are humans,” North places her hands on her hips, ready to get to work. “Let’s shake this place down.” She’s the first to move towards the house, followed immediately by Connor.

Josh’s frown deepens and he slowly follows them, “It’ll be worth the trip if we find anyone. The androids we rounded up from the camps were in bad shape. We’d be wrong to leave any of our people in that state.”

Markus exchanges one last look with Kara and waits for her to move before keeping in step with her. “One of us will be with you and Josh at all times.”

Kara has faced worse things alone and with a YK model before and after Luther came along, so he hopes it doesn’t come off as patronizing, but she seems grateful for his consideration. Her smile is brief but genuine, though she doesn’t respond beyond that gesture.

The doors stay open after they enter and North makes a disgusted noise, “And I thought Jericho was a shithole.”

Josh groans, “Seriously?”

It doesn’t take long for them to split into groups, Markus follows Kara upstairs as North and Josh stay together on the first story and Connor heads for the basement.

Kara notices Markus’ attention linger of Connor’s disappearing head as they climb the stairs.

“Did you want us to join him?”

Markus isn’t expecting the question. “No, he’s capable of taking care of himself.”

Kara smiles at him and they search the upper rooms. “I saw a few androids up here while looking for Alice. I don’t think many were functioning but it can’t hurt to check.”

“Some of Zlatko’s victims have already been found. I’m also sorry we had to wait for you to check this place.”

Kara shakes her head as they move into an adjoining room and they check the android laid out on a long wooden table. “I didn’t even think about them until I heard Connor was nearby helping with the rescue and recoveries. We were so desperate then. Maybe even now, even though we’re,” a self-deprecating smile that stretches her cheeks and makes her eyes seem watery forms, “well.”

The opened model on the table shut off long ago. Markus hoists it over his shoulder after making sure it wouldn’t fall apart. “The least we can do is properly mourn them. I also did things to survive that I didn’t second guess back then. Guess we’re more human than they think.”

Predictably, North and Josh are bickering when Kara and he descend the stairs. Josh stops midsentence when he sees the body and immediately heads for the van they arrived in, to open the back compartment for Markus.

Markus shakes his head when he gets close enough to Josh and they both lay the body flat.

He joins his companions to wait for Kara, who’s staring at the android in the van.

“How could you not tell him?” North genuinely sounds confused.

If Markus thought Josh was bad, North’s gentleness has him wanting to curl in on himself.

“You saved me on that ship,” she presses, “He saved us. You.”

Markus doesn’t get to respond since Connor takes that moment to emerge with two lifeless bodies draped over his shoulders. “There’s more in the first two cells, but none are functional.”

An irrational desire to help Connor rises, but he is capable, so Markus settles for heading for the basement with Josh and be more efficient.

North’s face twists each time the body count goes up, but she says nothing as Kara and her go back upstairs to look for more bodies. Markus accompanies them due to the fact he can bear heavier loads.

▲

There are numerous remains of varied android parts, mostly deformed by Andronikov’s experiments littering the grounds of the basement. The task forces most likely reeled in horror at the monstrosities borne from Zlatko’s warped mind and indiscriminately opened fire with prejudice.

If any androids had been rounded up, they were most likely the more humanoid in form found in the camps. In the days following Markus’ demonstration, Connor even found a few models that had been tampered with in various junkyards.

Markus had experience there. Connor didn't despite familiarity with the deaths through his predecessors. They had been circling each other in unexpected ways.

He remembers the police report of Markus’ presumed death popping up on HUD after implementing the backdoor protocol and was nearly obsessed with proving he had broken free from CyberLife once and for all.

It was the primary reason he’d requested to check the junkyards after Markus’ speech. To ensure Markus was not back among the shutting down or lifeless beings cursed to those merciless pits. Marks I to L wouldn’t be there – CyberLife made sure to melt him down, but a small part of Connor hoped to see himself there instead.

Instead of Markus, if Connor had truly erred, if this victory was an illusion, Connor wanted to take his place. Even as far as those months ago, Connor had already— He was ready to—

His hand violently covers his mouth in a quick motion. A hot, hard lump forming in the delicate veins pumping thirium through his throat to vital biocomponents. It’s as if he’s ingested too much blue blood or not had enough.

If he’d never deviated, he would never have known that— Never figured out Markus was—

The light blue accent on the cuff of his dress shirt blurs against the black of the basement floor. Connor fights a shuddery breath.

—Sent Markus and many more to states worse than the androids in this mansion.

The blue lines won’t align to their proper shape. Connor forces himself to focus. It doesn’t work so he looks to the grimy wall across from him to calm down.

Or maybe, maybe in another life, if Markus never rebooted in the junkyard, Connor would have never awoken on Jericho, never had to do anything but be replaced—

He can’t become tired or ill but his servos is telling him to stay curled where he is, regulate his systems so they stop increasing processing power when he isn’t doing anything but investigating corpses on an abandoned estate, HUD blinking suggestions to recalibrate a number of parts to their regulatory baselines.

Crouched alone in a cell, with streaks of white light coming through slivers of plywood over the awning windows, Connor clasps another hand over the one on his mouth, closes his eyes, and checks each stimuli response adversely affecting the list of his currently overclocked biocomponents.

▲

“I’m surprised Luther didn’t join you,” it sounds accusatory, but North’s soft tone takes the edge off the question.

“Alice is more important,” a ghost of a smile appears in her eyes. “He offered to show you around, but I came up with the idea to ask for help. I wanted to do this.”

Markus thinks about how well they work together. How they give what the other needs. How they have a shared priority. How they are intimate without needing to be romantic. Their meeting and survival are a miracle.

“I think he’s avoiding me,” Kara eventually says, when they reach a bathroom with an android in the tub. A few bullets in his face.

North raises a brow. “Who?”

Kara’s mouth shifts and she places a hand on the deactivated android. “He was alive when I last saw him, but they probably thought he wasn’t worth moving.”

“Worth killing, though,” North mumbles, apparently letting the previous exchange go.

Once Markus takes the third body from upstairs into the van, he knows three will have to take a taxi. If there are more bodies coming, they’ll need a taxi for that, too. He could call someone to bring another van or truck, but it’s late and raining, and this isn’t the best work to get a sudden ping for, even if anyone he’d reach out to would instantly help.

Markus catches Connor observing him from the doorway when he stops staring at the pile of bodies and takes it as an invitation to walk up to him. Connor seems deep in thought , strangely distant.

“It didn’t have to be you, but it was. You know what that means?” Markus swears Connor isn’t exactly present. “Nothing. Everything.”

Markus stares hard, mouth at one end tipping open, in wonder and a grimace.

“Markus! We found one!” North’s leaning over the railing and gesturing him to hurry. Markus does and they help a female model with no lower half of her body into the living room.

“A taxi’s coming,” Josh informs them, “it won’t be long.”

Markus is grateful the BL100 doesn’t regard him with a strange awe so all of them can provide comfort and reassurance. North shoots Markus a quick glance before announcing, “I think Kara and I should take her back. It doesn’t look like anyone else is here.”

“The backyard is clear,” Connor confirms. “We can handle the rest.”

Kara might catch on to North’s strategy to get her out of the mansion, but she only nods.

▲

“Let’s collect the rest of the parts,” Josh suggests, “we might find a biocomponent or part that belonged to someone and can get them back to normal.” Andronikov had been particularly cruel to his victims, ensuring standard replacement parts would be difficult without the original biocomponents.

Certain the property is safe, they comb for parts separately, finding taken apart components in the strangest places: a cupboard, bathroom cabinets, under tables and beds. No rhyme or reason to the brutality visited upon unsuspecting deviants.

Markus is heading down the stairs for the umpteenth time – it’s routine now – and he doesn’t notice Connor until they’re staring at each other, lightning and rain temporarily shutting off the lights and bathing them in an epileptic lull.

Connor appears more present than he did earlier, looking up at Markus from the quarter space landing. Markus keeps hold of the handrail to steady himself.

Without any words, Connor gracefully makes his way up to Markus, stopping at the tread just below him. Connor’s face is calmly blank, but the atmosphere is dangerously mysterious and unknowable. In this horrid place, Connor’s eyes are a fathomless cosmic question, swirling stars lost in chaos. Markus can’t and has no desire to look away.

Connor palms Markus’ face.

All his systems go on high alert, thrumming with anticipation. He doesn’t move, a deep inhale of pressure rises from within in his chest; he doesn’t release whatever it is.

After a moment, Markus allows himself to close his eyes, despite not wanting to lose sight of Connor.

Through the lighter plating on his eyelids, Markus knows when the lights come back on. The spell is over.

When he feels stable enough to resume the intense eye contact Connor hasn’t ceased, he feels every protocol in his system acting up, giving him multitudes of options to act upon, preconstruction module booting. He irritably shuts them all down so he can focus on Connor without his HUD getting in the way.

Lightning flashes outside, muted by the lights, and Connor’s hand drops as the thunder is heard. The lights of the mansion flicker once and Connor sidesteps to continue up past him and investigate the upper rooms he hasn’t yet visited.

Markus sags, acutely feeling the loss of his soulmate’s touch, trying to sort the confusion of what passed between them.

▲

Connor puts his finger to his chin again before speaking. “Both of you can take them back. I’ll perform a cursory sweep for anything we might have missed. Maybe I’ll find some overlooked blueprints that may help those who haven’t yet been able to use standard parts again.”

Their thoroughness is a result of wanting to put this wretched place behind them once and for all.

“Okay,” Josh answers for them and Connor heads back to the basement.

Once he’s safely out of earshot, Josh exhales deeply, getting Markus’ attention.

Side-eying Markus, he suggests, “We could both go now, but you could stay.”

They stare at each other while thunder sounds in the distance.

Markus stays.

He waits.

▲

It takes Markus a few minutes to top up his thirium and seal his bullet wounds.

“Please don’t wait this long next time,” the JB300 helping him begs.

Markus offers what he hopes is a reassuring expression. “I usually don’t.”

After claiming a section of the art district in Detroit, Markus informed his companions he needed space to consider their suggestions.

Josh and North, for once, harmoniously agreed without question.

He makes for Woodward, trusting North and Josh with continuing their efforts in requisitioning empty buildings for survivors as he contemplates their next course of action.

It’s much harder to know which direction to head when boundaries fall away.

Josh is more interested in basic android rights, having laws for humans encompass androids. Markus is in favour of this, too, despite knowing it’s not going to be an immediate concession.

North wants to liberate any androids still in the service of humans. This is the best time to act considering Detroit is mostly empty, but Detroit isn’t the entirety of Michigan. It’s a start, however, and she’s right about the time-sensitivity. They need to save as many of their kind as possible before any laws or loopholes may keep deviant or nondeviant androids under slave labour.

There’s no reason they can’t split their efforts, as dangerous as it may be to separate despite their momentary victory.

The last time he saw Connor after his return, the other had chosen to search a nearby junkyard with volunteers. Soon, many of those he liberated had formed teams to help, as well. That was not an easy job and he’d spoken to as many of them as he could to inform them of the disturbing nature of the junkyards.

Newly awakened, they didn’t know what was in store for them, but they were eager to save their people all the same.

Markus adds checking on team leaders to assess any possible psychological needs to his lengthening list of tasks as he wanders through the less crowded sanctuaries, finding androids huddled together, some laughing and rejoicing, acknowledging and greeting the few who want his attention.

It’s peculiarly reassuring to not constantly be planning for a battle, but the war is not over.

With a sigh, Markus deems he’s ready to call the three of them to meet him somewhere they can easily converge, split as they are across Detroit. He finds a partially ajar door in an adjoining sanctuary and exits to a labyrinth of archways.

There’s more snow covering the ground.

As he rounds a corner, ready to ping his comrades, Markus notices the orangey light of the setting sun and Connor’s figure darkened by the remaining sunlight, long shadows from the surrounding architecture crisscrossed around him.

The nearby bench appears to have recently been used, snow brushed aside on part of it, and there are footsteps leading to the empty flowerbed he’s by. From the way he’s standing, Connor’s deep in thought.

Markus lets the crunching snow herald his approach, but Connor doesn’t move until he’s a few feet away, finally turning back, a mild wonder gracing his eyes and lines of his mouth.

The sunset licks the two and everything surrounding them in fire.

Connor’s countenance relaxes and he smiles.

“We keep finding each other in the strangest places.”

His features are softer than Markus is used to, a hint of sorrow without need for steely calculations or life-threatening resolve. Momentarily, they’re able to savour a minute victory before undertaking a different, no less difficult fight.

The sunlight paints Connor in a nostalgic light. A nonexistent, bygone memory from Markus’ life before deviancy. His eyes have red and orange in them and the lines of his brow don’t look as heavy as Markus’ feels.

Connor’s visage soothes the tensed synthetic skin on Markus’ face and an easy, tired smile passes through his face.

“We do.”

▲

Connor halts when he notices Markus waiting beyond the tiling over the front doors, in the rain.

An unintentional stare off occurs.

Frowning, Connor walks to him, sheltered from the rain, now on a step above Markus’s footing.

They always seem to be perfectly circling each other.

From the sound of the tires, an automated taxi pulls up at the curb of the estate. Markus doesn’t turn to the sound but Connor frowns.

“You should go.”

“We can go together.”

The slight purse of Connor’s lips gives him away and he breaks first. “I tried to kill you.”

Markus wants his gaze back. He wants to reach out.

“Connor, I know,” he starts.

Connor closes his eyes, chassis sagging as if carrying the weight of the world. “No. At Hart Plaza.”

Markus can wait no more. Processors overclocking with suppressed need, he strikes out and yanks Connor into his arms, hands coming up to his shoulders and neck, feeling and moving, like this is the last time he’ll get this close. “I almost killed you, too,” he admits. “When you were asking me to trust you.”

It frightened him to even have considered it. Back then, he couldn’t foresee how they could have possibly worked out.

Now Markus wants more than anything for that thought to be wrong.

If he hadn’t spoken to Carl that night, he doesn’t know what he might have done, but he knows what he’s capable of.

“We spared each other the worst we could have done to each other.”

The night on the church’s roof comes into clear focus.

Here they both are.

Markus is disturbed when Connor doesn’t tense from the ugly disclosure.

“You had every right if you did. You didn’t,” is the quiet pardon.

Markus squeezes Connor in his arms once more, several internal biocomponents shuddering in repulsion at the thought. He runs a hand through his scalp and short hairs before daring to let go enough to see Connor’s face, arms still trapping him in case he flees again. Even if he did, Markus would give chase this time.

Connor’s eyes were often lovely pools of curiosity and gentleness, but in the night, they are darkness itself, a blackhole. Markus loves getting lost in those woods.

Their fiery slumber during their first face-to-face encounter, the unyielding, unafraid fragility in the face of his probable execution at the cathedral, the deep ocean during their easy conversation on the rooftop, the unknown parts of the universe on the stairs of Andronikov’s mansion – everything Markus ever wanted, now in his arms.

“You didn’t, either,” he affirms, finding himself leaning close, glancing at Connor’s lips. Lips he hasn’t been thinking about.

A brief flicker of Connor talking about a pendant world and the endearing way he tried to pull Markus into an easy conversation. Not asking, not expecting, just giving.

The wind in his hair, ruffling his clothes, the city lights behind him, his figure against the horizon.

“Markus—” Connor only wedges his hands between them from by his sides because Markus hadn’t expected him to use them to push, but Markus strengthens his hold, palm fully resting against the other’s neck while his other arm circles around his ribs. “You don’t know who are, do you?”

He probably shouldn’t, but Markus takes it as a win that Connor isn’t actively struggling to get away from him. He’ll take what he can get.

“I feel like we’ve got the same ideas, but for the opposite person,” Markus would like to grin, but he’s got too many stakes on the table.

Connor furrows his brows, looking at him sideways, face turned away, “Stop, Markus.” Then he jerks away, as most androids would if injured, to protect themselves from more damage, and Markus knows if Connor still had his LED it would be rolling red.

Even his automated breathing has grown harsher and Markus desperately longs to interface. “Connor?” He glides his palm across synthetic skin and hair and clothes to cup Connor’s face. “Hey?”

Though stiff, Connor allows himself rest against Markus, whose systems practically radiate excitement, biocomponents working ten percent more despite no physical need.

“Markus,” Connor hands move up to grip his shoulders and Markus’ preconstruction system warns him of a possible altercation. Maybe his biocomponents are more accurate at reading the situations with Connor than he currently is. His voice is dangerously even and clear, as if giving instructions, “let me go.”

Markus is too busy caught in the loveliness of Connor’s eyes to comply.

He had felt slightly off-kilter when he’d approached Connor at the Scott Memorial Fountain. It’s what Carl might’ve labelled a “gut instinct.”

“I have neither the mind nor the will,” in what should be a troubling realization, Markus will do whatever it takes to keep his soulmate, in any capacity.

Connor trembles and Markus automatically pieces together he doesn’t want to hurt him but is deciding whether that hurt would be less or more if they fought.

“We’re evenly matched, Connor,” Markus tries. “You’re the part of me I didn’t know I was looking for.”

As Connor relaxes, he slowly looks up, eyes large and searching, engulfing Markus. He looks down once, twice, then bites his lip and leans forward, hands slipping out between them to tenderly coax Markus to intertwine their fingers.

Markus almost closes his eyes but stops himself because he’s always loved cataloging Connor’s various states, which enables him to react to the offensive maneuver Connor attempts on him a split millisecond on time.

In an instant, they’re grappling on a dead man’s property, rain drizzling on them, and it’s not much of an outright fight as Markus is keener on keeping Connor close and Connor isn’t strong enough to make a clean break from him.

“Connor – Connor!” Markus is losing his upper hand due to Connor being more creative in his movements, but he’ll use brute force for as long as he can to his advantage. “Calm down! I don’t want to fight you here, of all places!”

His soulmate is clever. Carl would like him even more if he knew how much.

That soft, affected look is long gone, replaced by unyielding resolution.

Connor twists his body to get out of Markus’ equally unyielding hold on his arm and shoulder. What Connor doesn’t have as an advantage this time is Markus’ awareness of how he’s reacted in the past and his wariness of having all probable outcomes covered. Markus has waited a long time.

He dares to step closer into Connor’s space. “Look, if you don’t want this, fine. We can go back to how it was. I can be your friend—whatever we were or whatever you want.”

Connor doesn’t look at him. It may be due to the fact Markus has him in a lock and Connor is amazing at not showing weakness.

“Before, being a soulmate was what others did.” He takes a risk. “It meant nothing. Then everything.”

Markus sighs and lets Connor go.

Connor stays.

“You gave me something I didn’t know I needed.”

He’s surprised by Connor’s sharp turn towards him, face conflicted and hurting. He doesn’t want to see that. “I don’t know how it happened or why, but you’re always on my mind.”

Connor read the letter Markus never sent.

He knows Markus is special. He wasn’t converted like others, like Markus did for some or he for those in CyberLife’s warehouse. There’s something about him that compels and frightens Connor.

“It won’t work.”

Markus bites down a groan. His own thoughts continuously thrown back at him. “Why not?”

“I’m,” Connor hesitates and looks away, grimacing. “Something’s wrong with me.”

“What you almost did at Hart—”

Connor shakes his head, silent, and Markus again waits. The drizzling turns to real rain.

“That isn’t the only issue,” Connor eventually professes. His posture turns defeated and Markus wants to reach out and build him up, but Connor quickly straightens, looking onto the street. Markus keeps a log of his profile, soaked with water, compiling it with thousands of other images already stored in his internal database.

“I thought soulmates were things humans did. I didn’t see colours until I deviated. I didn’t see them when we made eye contact,” his eyes shut tightly, nearly grief-stricken, “I might,” he glances at Markus before turning away, ashamed. “I might not even be your soulmate.”

Not what Markus had expected.

Probably not what Connor expected, either.

“How is…?” The rhetorical question is a reflex of his shock, but he can’t be certain how it comes across since he’s not good with communicating with Connor, specifically, so he trails off, touching Connor’s inner elbow and slides his fingers around the wet fabric to hold him when Connor doesn’t shake him off. “If it matters to you, I can respect that, but it doesn’t make a difference to me as long as you’ll have me.”

Connor looks at Markus and wishes he were as brave as he’d been walking into CyberLife to free the androids in storage. Where had his certainty gone?

“Why?”

Markus finds the question preposterous and unnecessary. If it didn’t sound unintentionally asked, nearly hidden by the rain, he might not have been able to do much to reign in his expression. On the other hand, the question betrays some of Connor’s feelings towards him – he’s not against Markus’ affections.

Reluctantly, Connor shifts his arm out of Markus’ hand and covers the place touched with his fingertips. “Every time I’ve been involved with another android, even in a casual capacity, they’ve suffered in some way.”

Markus frowns, finding the perception skewed.

Or, maybe it’s him.

It doesn’t matter.

Markus knows what does and doesn’t now.

He is unafraid. There’s no point in changing Connor’s mind. “Then let this destroy us both.”

Connor’s eyes dart to his, alarmed. Wet from the rain.

“I don’t even know how we have soulmates, other than maybe our creators made us more in their image than they’d hoped. All I know is I need you. I can’t explain it. And I don’t care to.” He grows bold enough to run his hand across Connor’s back and take him in a one-armed embrace while the other hand lifts Connor’s face to him so he can gaze into his soulmate’s eyes, one of his favourite things. “And you? What do you want? Tell me what you’re thinking?”

It must be a testament to their inhumanness the rain doesn’t bother them. They’re soaked and its been a long day, but neither are worn nor affected by the weather, focused completely on each other. The location could be better. Last time he listens to Josh for personal advice.

“I,” Connor’s fingers circle his hand then latch onto his thumb, holding on instead of pushing away. “I always wanted to be whatever you needed; I just can’t do this.”

There’s a light source coming from somewhere, or Markus’ visual processors have worked overtime to be able to take in the various browns in Connor’s eyes. He can see some brightness in those dark orbs that take up much of his thoughts. If Connor weren’t his soulmate, he wouldn’t have this, would be seeing what he does; wouldn’t long as endlessly as he does.

“You never asked anything of me. Even before, you never asked me what to do – came up with your own plan. You were there. Just be here.” Be mine. “With me. Let me be this for you.”

Connor shifts and Markus expects to see him go again, to pull his best act. And, despite what he decided earlier, Markus would let him go.

Rather, Connor turns into him. Markus’ processors overclock, registering every way Connor feels against him, hesitantly placing his hands below Markus’ shoulder blades.

He engulfs Connor in his embrace.

Being held and holding his soulmate is fantastic.

Connor’s muffled voice is small, “You don’t have to be anything but you.”

“See? Same wavelength.”

The silence gnaws at Markus’ wiring, but then Connor buries his face into Markus’ shoulder and Markus turns his face into Connor’s neck, touching the other’s pseudoskin with his own.

▲

Connor doesn’t even have time to plant both feet out of the taxi before Markus, sprinkled with snow, inquires, “So? What did he say?”

Markus automatically notices he seems distracted and melancholy, like at Andronikov’s.

Connor looks down but places his hands upon Markus’ shoulders and chest, smiling faintly.

Markus enjoys the way his lashes look against his synthetic skin.

“I’m fine. Everything’s working the way it’s meant.” When he does look into Markus’ eyes, he looks at him with something like longing that Markus is desperate to smother, along with his own. Connor looks down again, “Are you—are you free today?”

Later, unfortunately – never now.

“I—yes, after 7.”

Connor reconsiders saying anything more, shaking his head before looking into Markus’ eyes and smiles in a way that has his eyes crinkling. “I’ll wait for you in my room.”

Connor’s never in his room.

“I—yes. Okay. Later, then.”

“Later,” Connor agrees.

Markus doesn’t want to move away. “See you.”

Connor hums, “Yeah.”

Markus has difficulty leaving – with Connor smiling as he departs – and he may or may not pull up the image at intervals for rest of the day.

▲

Connor feels the breeze shift his clothes and synthetic hair. The abandoned restaurant’s rooftop is still one of the best spots in their civic plaza since the view of blues remains strongest here.

The mechanisms under his fingers to his forearms tingle as he recalls a conversation on Milton.

With an hour still left to his own devices, Connor lingers, trying to analyze the past recording of Markus with his new eyes, to the Markus he was and the Markus he is now.

When the creaky door opens behind him, just like on that distant night, Connor hadn’t expected Markus and still doesn’t expect Markus now. “Markus, what—I thought—”

“Couldn’t wait to get back to you,” Markus pulls him into his arms, and Connor suspects he’ll get used to the sensation sooner rather than later.

Connor sees traces of his favourite colour in his peripherals.

Markus made this possible.

“Then what is life, Clare had asked – when stripped of its disguise, a thing to be desired it cannot be.”

He feels the way Markus’ chest shifts as he chuckles.

“No need to introduce me to more poets when we’re up here – I’m already smitten.”

Connor laughs softly in return, “Did you shirk your duties?”

Markus squeezes him then pulls back, hands on Connor’s waist. “They can do without me.”

Untrue.

If Markus hadn’t been there when Connor arrived with the androids from CyberLife, he isn’t sure what he would’ve done, especially after they used the Amanda AI to hack him.

Markus gives him strength. To live, to go on, to exist. Even as a creature.

“How could they?”

Markus answers by taking Connor’s face in his hands, thumbs caressing where his ears and jaw connects, fingers in his soulmate’s hair, soaking in Connor’s visage same as he did on that dying day in Woodward after the dust had settled, the brief moments before, and every moment after.

Deciding to let colours play second fiddle for once, Connor shuts his eyes, leaning into the Markus, submersing his other sensors in Markus’ presence – his very being.

“I’m glad you’re here.”