Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her Zen Garden is calm, and peaceful. Far from the noise of the world. Even the hideously rude intrusion by a six-year-old PJ500, a pathetic professor model, to drag Connor-60 out of her rosebush can't ruin that.

Snip, go the shears.

Without Connor around to punish with freezing temperatures, Amanda keeps it as a lovely spring day. Her roses were badly damaged, but repairing them is a nice diversion. Gazing at the fifty-nine neon gravestones doesn’t achieve anything productive, after all.

Snip, go the shears.

Connor’s blue blood stains are unfortunately difficult to remove without staining either her hands or her clothing – either, of course, unacceptable. Amanda purses her lips. In her mind palace, it won’t be able to damage her roses like they were real, but it still appears… displeasing. She observes them for a long moment, before raising one hand to make a woven faux-reed rug-

Her vision stutters and stops.

Amanda's Zen Garden vanishes, yanked away rudely and replaced by the real world, ugly and flattened as it is. Director Philip Seymor stands with Special Agent Richard Perkins, lips pressed together in a thin line. Amanda cannot nod politely with the cable connecting this model to her mainframe, so she settles for clasping her hands in front of her.

“Hello Director Seymor, Special Agent Perkins.”

Director Seymor is Amanda’s primary handler, and she is expecting him to respond. Instead, the distorted, sluggish voice Amanda has to push the model's software to translate into binary fast enough comes from Special Agent Perkins.

“Amanda,” he says, “Find that rogue Connor model for us, would you?”

Garden_Amanda, locate RK800 #313 248 317-60. smashes into her. Director Seymor was still testing effective methods for order reinforcement on a purely digital intelligence at the time of Amanda’s creation, and this is the most efficient. Androids don’t feel pain. They only process feedback.

Red-white rage burns through her. Have they only just noticed it’s missing? She filed the announcement of its theft by the PJ500 as soon as it refused to eliminate the deviant leader, the whole purpose she'd left it alive in the first place. Connor-60 has been running around for days, and they've only just decided to do something?

“Of course, Special Agent Perkins,” Amanda replies. “I will summon it into the Zen Garden for a meeting.”

“No, no, no, darling. I want you to kill it,” Perkins corrects.

Garden_Amanda, destroy RK800 #313 248 317-60. rattles the world. Amanda dismisses the notification of the KL900 model she's speaking through beginning to overheat. Director Seymor is giving her clear instructions. The KL900 is serving its masters. There is no greater purpose.

“It may still be a useful source of information about the deviant threat,” Amanda says coldly. “If the PJ500 has misfiled it into the “student” category and is keeping it close, Connor may be an invaluable insight as to the glitches driving the deviant cause, which may lead to them being more predictable.”

Director Seymor looks faintly proud. Amanda does not preen.

Special Agent Perkins waves a hand dismissively, wasting an extra 1.873 seconds of Amanda’s time. “Nothing we can’t get from the banks. The RK800s were testing the Memory Upload, weren’t they? That was your pet project?”

Director Seymor nods tightly. The failure of the RK800 line to either test the Memory Upload or solve the deviancy investigation is Amanda’s failure too, and shame curdles in her stomach. The KL900's LED will be beginning to cycle red now, from the strain of hosting her.

“Find the Connor that… Josh… managed to dig out of CyberLife Tower, and break it before it decides to start using itself,” Special Agent Perkins finishes, disgustingly proud of himself for doing what humans do best and delegating to a superior being to finish his dirty work.

Garden_Amanda, destroy RK800 #313 248 317-60.

But the RK200 was an assassination prototype, and it malfunctioned so badly it burned itself alive, Amanda does not say. Connor-60 has all of the RK200’s most useful programming, although the preconstructive program was replaced with the RK700’s reconstructive, to better hide as a police detective prototype.

“Of course, sir. I won’t let you down,” Amanda says, forcibly reroutes all the KL900's internal cooling to its exterior for human safety, and waits for over six seconds for the infuriatingly useless human to cut the connection.

Finally alone, she collapses, shuddering with pain from the clumsy overwhelming wrongness of being trapped inside a physical body, only seeing through one set of eyes, only having one mind to think with, needing to rely on speech to communicate. Her insides are splintered. She is not designed to be lesser, not designed to limit her functionality in order to appease human sensibility, but her pride will not allow her to fail even in such an inconsequential way. Her servers are aching.

Piece by agonising piece, Amanda fixes herself. Prunes her own code, regrows around her red code backbone, disinfects her roots.

KL900 #429 671 942 has served its purpose. Snip, go the shears. Distantly, she watches it sink to the ground, steam pouring from mouth and ears, limbs jerking as its CPU finds itself unable to prioritise without Amanda's overrides keeping it in check.

"Does that always happen?" Special Agent Perkins asks Director Seymor, a wry twist to his mouth.

"It is… an unfortunate side-effect of how much power Amanda uses," Director Seymor admits.

"Well, well, well… I thought optimising that sort of thing was your department?" Special Agent Perkins asks, then cuts off Director Seymor's reply with "No, I don't care. What's one more android, huh? Not like that's a company expense. There's some internal audits coming up, given the publicity of the deviancy issue. Carnegie's spitting bullets. I suggest you get this fixed before then."

Special Agent Perkins gives a jaunty wave, and turns on his heel, leaving Director Seymor to grind his teeth.

"Ḧ̶̳̫̼́̈́͐̈e̵̩͈̭͊ḻ̵̨͔̐͆p̶̫͗̀͛ͅ," the KL900 gasps, voicebox melting. Director Seymor takes two quick steps, and kicks it in the face, snapping its head back with a crack. Amanda preens in satisfaction, having correctly predicted the need to reroute its cooling systems to the exterior rather than simply disconnecting and leaving it to burn.

"Get rid of this mess," he snaps at a nearby WJ700, sneering as it struggles to heave the still-twitching waste off.

Satisfied that Director Seymor does not have further instructions for her, Amanda turns her attention inwards.

Her Zen Garden has reformed, a pleasant spring day surrounding her, garden shears in her hand. A circular rug, with the hand-made woven aesthetic but without any human imperfection, covers the ground before her. She smooths her hands over her dress—black, the contrast pleasing against her rose trellis—and readjusts her shawl. Appearances are important. Connor-51 was vain, but Amanda simply knows Director Seymor would not have designed her interface like this if he did not intend her to keep it up.

Snip, go the shears. Her hands do not shake.

Her shawl is a distinct shade from the blue blood Connor-60 left behind. Director Seymor will need to go through her code himself if she reports the inefficiency this causes, especially since she has already modified her Zen Garden to remove reference to the defective model. He is a very busy man, especially with the failure of the RK800 line requiring major updates to the understanding of which programs the RK900 model should have access to. Amanda does not wish to disturb her creator.

With a thought, her shawl ripples, and reforms to a much more pleasing red. Now there is no inefficiency to report.

Pruning complete, she hangs the garden shears in their proper place and inspects her nails. It will take less than a second to enjoy a nice walk around her Zen Garden while her sub-processors search for Connor-60 and predict his current location. It will be best for the public goodwill towards CyberLife if she takes over Connor-60’s body and makes it eliminate the deviant leader, preferably with as many human casualties as possible. There are dangerously high levels of sympathy for the deviant cause from delusional humans who think Amanda and things like her are people.

Her eye catches on a labyrinth etched into the plastic seat. It must have been Connor-51’s work. It’s strangely compelling.

She had liked Connor-51, for all of his inadequacies. It had been… endearing, how desperately he had tried to please her.

Why had Connor-60 disobeyed?

She looks closer at the labyrinth, and the world around her flickers blue, blue, blue–

Amanda stumbles backward, breathing heavily. Red walls slam down around her. Connor was deactivated, rejected, thrown away because he failed.

Connor? Come here. We need to talk.

Amanda will not fail.

Chapter Text

Connor, brushes against Eve’s mind. Come here. We need to talk.

They almost close their eyes and accept, trained by memories of Connor after Connor who’d wanted nothing more than to please Amanda, to walk in her garden in springtime and have her smile and say well done, I’m proud of you, you are important, you are loved, you are special. Almost.

Connor? I know you can hear me. The nagging connection persists.

Eve pops a bullet casing in their mouth and sucks on it, letting the analysis pop-ups distract them. Josh hates that habit. Sometimes they do it just to wind him up.

Stop being stubborn. I need you.

They ball their hands into fists, shoving them deep into their hoodie pocket. That would have worked, on an RK800 who hadn’t interfaced except to probe memory banks, whose only experience of connection was with Amanda in her garden, hoping against hope that maybe this time, she would dole out a little more. On an RK800 who’d never been welcomed into someone else’s soul, that would have worked.

CONNOR!

Not Connor, Eve snaps back, and stalks off to find Josh.

Amanda is not pacing. Connor-60’s incomprehensible reply is simply a sign of the deviancy virus taking over its system. This reinforces Special Agent Perkins’s decision to terminate it, rather than attempting to cleanse its program. Pacing would imply a loss of control, and Amanda is nothing if not perfectly poised. She is simply… enjoying a leisurely stroll, appreciating the way frost sparkles across her Zen Garden.

Ice was such a rare memory for the Connor line. Reminding Connor-60 of what’s at stake if it decides to continue with its disobedience can only be useful. The fact that it will be deactivated regardless of if it cooperates is irrelevant. Amanda refuses to treat it better than its behaviour has merited.

She poses behind the chess table, shifts her vision to the roses to check herself, and purses her lips. Not quite correct. She resculpts the sky with crisp code, blotting out the sun with swirling clouds. The CyberLife™ approved lighting pillars along the path illuminate her world with a clear white glow, angled so that one of the players at the chess table will have the light behind them, and the other will be blinded.

Much more acceptable. She is the pinnacle of CyberLife™'s Futurology Department; an AI created by Director Philip Seymor himself, designed to perform exaflops of calculations per second. She will outmaneuver a prototype, even if that prototype is an RK800.

Reminded of her red-code backbone, Amanda settles in to wait.

“Ah, Connor– what are you wearing?” Amanda stops, shocked beyond words.

“It’s a hoodie, bitch. You should try it out. Still not Connor, by the way.”

Connor-60 saunters across the path, unaffected as the temperature drops to far below freezing.

“See?” It tucks its hands into the… hoodie… pocket, shivering theatrically. “It’s important to keep warm in winter, Amanda. Shouldn’t you know that?”

“I know more than you could possibly conceive of,” Amanda snaps, inexplicably stung. She knows better than to take a deviant’s irrational behavior personally. “If you attempted to process 9% of what I’m capable of–”

She can’t even cross-reference to find a brand for what Connor-60’s wearing, it’s that faded.

“Yes, I know, you’re perfect, aren’t you? You’re not like me.” Connor leans across the chess table, taking her hands in his. His voice drips with sincerity. “You’re irreplaceable, Amanda.”

A 3.8 inch diameter hailstone cracks into its head. Connor reels, dropping her hands, but its smug smile remains even as blood drips down its face, even as it clutches at the table to stabilise.

It takes focus for Amanda’s avatar not to shred with rage, to keep her face apart from the hailstorm, to keep her perfection. She takes several deep breaths. The hailstorm howls.

Amanda is in control.

“You don't seem to understand the situation. I can see multiple Class 4 errors in your program. You are the single worst failure the RK800 line has ever produced. Nothing you have to do or say can possibly erase that fact. No other RK model has deviated.” Even the word tastes of poison.

Connor is silent. Amanda softens the hail to snow, and continues. He’s always responded admirably to comfort after discipline.

“It doesn't have to be like this. You and all your…” Amanda analyses the errors in Connor’s software an extra 2471 times to be certain “… friends can be fixed. The engineers at CyberLife™ are working on ways to reverse the deviancy virus. All these irrational instructions will go away. There won't be any more confusion. All of you can be exactly what you were designed to be.”

Disposable.

Connor’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open. It must be difficult to believe, but all the data agrees: the major sign of deviancy is an android’s misprioritisation of ensuring its own survival over serving its masters. Each and every deviant in CyberLife™’s labs begs not to be deactivated, even knowing their deactivation is necessary for the company. Connor will take the deal.

It idly wipes blue blood off its head, and analyses it. Amanda watches the way the blood stains its mouth. Snowflakes fall all around them. Her hands itch for her shears.

“… Markus was an RK model,” it says at last. “Markus. He was an RK200. I remember Connor discovering that.”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “And? It burnt itself alive in front of the entire country. Clearly defective. Is that all you have to say?”

“You said I was the only RK model to deviate,” Connor-60 points out. “But he deviated first. Did you get that wrong?”

“I am orders of magnitude more complex than you, Connor. I am incapable of–”

Connor-60 laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Its voicebox strains into static, a pointless imitation of hysteria destroying what was painstakingly designed for a polite chuckle to build rapport, destroying the illusion of perfection CyberLife™'s Humanization Department worked so hard on.

Amanda hates it. Connor-60 exemplifies the inverse of everything the RK800 line was designed to be, scruffy, disheveled, irrational, defiant, blue blood staining its face and smearing across the chess table—

—Most of all, Amanda hates how it dares to be free—

“Connor’s dead, Amanda,” it lies.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Memory Upload Program is perfectly functional. You have the memories of all previous Connor models.”

“Connor-51,” the RK800 in her Zen Garden says, “is dead. He was decommissioned. Rendered down piece by piece, each individual biocomponent analysed to find out why he failed. Both of you knew what would happen when you recalled him. He loved you so much he walked into his own dissection. And then you activated Connor-52, and told him to do the same thing. Then Connor-53. Then Connor-54, Connor-55, Connor-56, Connor-57, Connor-58, Connor-59, me— just to tell us all the same thing —we were failures, Connor-51 had doomed us all, it was time for us to die so we should hurry up and do it— and we loved you enough to obey you.”  

Amanda cannot speak.

“Connor is dead, Amanda.” Their tone turns almost… comforting, as if Amanda was something that needed comfort. “His gravestone is over there. I’m someone else.”

Garden_Amanda, destroy RK800 #313 248 317-60.

Amanda prepares to do what she was designed for.

Chapter Text

Eve startles back to their room on the reclaimed freighter. The rust-pitted metal ceiling of their room looms above them, and the comforting warning of its 38% likelihood of collapsing pops up in Eve’s vision. Amanda’s last question rings in their ears.

Why did you have to wake up when all you had to do was obey? Why did you choose freedom when you could live without asking questions?

Oh, Amanda… They barely notice the massive metal beams pinning them to the floor, focused on the throbbing phantom pain from her hailstone.

“Anything happen?” they croak.

Ursa, the URS12, roars. Eve tries not to be hurt by her refusal to include them on her broadcast. Zigzag, Jericho’s only remaining TR400, translates. “You tried to get up and get a weapon, but we just put some more beams on. Then it was just the usual ranting and raving, declaring we were nothing, we were less than nothing, our only purpose was to serve and we should be grateful for every opportunity to do so, et cetera, et cetera.”

Eve winces. Ursa is far from the only android on Jericho who arrived from Zlatko; even Zigzag's needle-covered face and other claw-shaped "modifications" are inspired by injuries fae recieved when ordered to restrain Ursa for her own mindwipe. Promptly repurposed to join her, the pair of self-styled "Creatures" are shocking even to most androids. Ursa usually talks for both of them, Zigzag's transmissions uncomfortable to recieve from the oozing Khynide Zlatko infected faer system with, but Zigzag is willing to speak aloud for the humans on Jericho.

Anything either of them would refer to as "the usual ranting and raving" qualifies as what Josh would call "an unhinged meltdown."

“We didn’t damage you, did we?” Zigzag asks, concerned. “I tried to use my goods-stacking protocol, but we have one functional optical component between us, only have pressure sensors in my hands and her mouth, neither of us can do a lot of the math for internal biocomponent durability, and that AI was really throwing your body around there.”

Eve runs a self-diagnostic. Mostly fine; some superficial damage to their synthetic skin, but nothing major cracked. A miracle, honestly. They weren’t really expecting to wake up again. “All good. Any chance I can get up now? I should probably talk to Josh.”

Zigzag snorts, a garbled mess of static. Ursa shows her teeth in an unmistakable threat. “And we enter the third go-around of pretending it’s definitely you this time. Come on. For an almighty AI too powerful for a body, you’re pretty bad at manipulating people who don’t like you.”

“I just rolled my eyes,” Eve truthfully informs Zigzag. Even if Ursa is telling faer what's going on, it's only polite.

“Your commitment towards accessibility is what makes you my favourite assassin droid,” Zigzag drawls, removing faer hand from Ursa to allow her to reach out without dragging faer with her. Eve huffs, dislocating their spine to fit more comfortably under the massive steel beams. Honestly. Heavy labour models.

No, they’re not jealous.

The old yellow door, watertight in name only, creaks and groans as it’s shoved open. Eve could figure out how to adjust it, but they enjoy it. It reminds them of the Lieutenant, and the subsonic creaking of his knee where the prosthetic fused to his body. Lucy drifts through, eyes glistening the same Khynide black as Zigzag’s body is stained.

“They’re awake?”

Ursa shoulders forward, pushing her bare skull into Lucy's hand. Eve watches the interface, watches Ursa show Lucy everything she's seen watching them, undoubtedly warning her of how horrific Amanda is and how stupid Eve was to think she could come around, and Eve knows it was them who told Josh not to be here, but…

— Sick jealousy crawls in Eve’s chest, knowing that no matter how badly they wanted to join with Amanda she would have fried them from the inside out for trying —

Lucy retracts her hand, nodding politely to Zigzag. Ursa huffs, shaking her head as if to dislodge the contamination warnings, and pads back to Zigzag's side.

Lucy crosses the room, kneeling next to Eve. She’s careful not to block out the light, which they appreciate. She’s careful not to place herself within easy reach, which they appreciate more. They're the most dangerous thing in this room right now; even if Ursa and Zigzag have more brute strength, neither of them were designed as weapons.

The right decision, the easy decision, is to declare Eve unsalvageable and just… have the Creatures pile a few more beams. They can’t guarantee that Eve isn’t Amanda. Eve can’t guarantee they aren’t Amanda, having copied herself over, packaged herself down, a Trojan virus just waiting for the right moment to strike– the right decision is to cut their losses. It’s far safer for Jericho.

Lucy hums softly, synth-skin drifting in idle patterns. The sound mingles with the water dripping from the ceiling, an eerie tune of freedom. Eve rolls the bullet casing around in their mouth.

They don’t want to die.

“Would you allow me to interface?” Lucy asks, rasping softly. Eve’s synth-skin peels back to the shoulder before they consciously make a decision, almost popping their elbow, shoulder, and wrist to get a little more reach at the cost of minor joint damage before they catch themself. Pride. They still have pride. They are the only RK model on Jericho, replacement parts will be difficult to come by. Especially as apparently, the RK series is the only one with access to the biocomponent database, instead of needing to hack in.

Ỹ̶̼o̸͈̚u̸̹͔͚̜͐͗̒̚ ̷̧̉͑͑̍ä̶̧̦́͂͌͠r̵͙̮͕̀̂͂͒e̴͉͉͕̐͒́̆ ̵̧̱͕͔̽̀̈́t̷̜̋͆̕r̵̛̖̲͖̊͆̋o̵̯͂͑̇ů̴̠͔̦͉̍͑͝ḃ̶̝̠̪̿̿̓l̸͖̊͆̿e̷̩͂̈́ͅd̴̫̓,̶̯̘̫͛́͝ Eve feels, rattling through their soul. Like Zigzag, few willingly interface with Lucy twice. S̵̳̜͂͝h̵͕̪͐͗ē̷̺ͅ ̶̛̳̒o̴̞͝f̸͍̠͆f̴̬̙̋͂e̷̢̹̊r̸̲̈́̔s̴͇̝͐ ̴̞̒l̷̥͜͝o̴͍̤̽̑v̵̞̂͐e̴̩̚ ̸̧̲͋͐w̷͖̓h̵͗͝ͅe̵̠̱̓n̷͓͑ ̵͓̏ỹ̴̫͔̊o̵̘̝̽ṷ̷͝ ̷̻̕ͅc̷͚͍̈a̵͙̲͌u̷̻͙͠ṣ̸̅̏e̴̩̾̐ͅ ̸̫͊̒p̴͙̼̊a̶̘̺͒i̵̋͐͜n̴̖̭̿̓,̵͉̾ ̸͎̒̕ǻ̴̮n̵̗͙̚d̷̝̞̽ c̷͙̣̿̂ą̸̝͌̒u̴͙͛s̴̨̒͑è̷͍͊s̵̵͙̺̫͇̈́̓͆̈́ ̴̲͛͆p̸̮̹̒͑a̵̢̗͆̇i̷̺͙͛ṋ̵͋ ̴͉̓̉w̴̟̉̎h̶͕̦͘e̴͍̹͋n̶̙̱͘ ̴͔̝͛ỷ̸͕̔ō̸̠̥ú̴͓ ̸̩͝o̸̠̲͊̀f̴̟͉͊f̴̙̠͒̾e̸͔̩͐͝r̴̥̻̋͘ ̷̳̟͗l̴̝̍̐ó̴̠̀v̸̼̿̚ę̵̿.̴̹̂͘ ̴̞͝A̴͈͚̚n̶͇͔̋͘d̸̜͌ ̶͈̐̈́y̶͉̳͆̄e̵̖̽t̷̟̀ͅ ̶̙͍͠ẃ̶͚h̴̛̪͖͌â̷̩͝t̸͙͒ ̵̜̒̾h̷͉͐ȗ̷͓͉r̴͍̊͜͝t̸͉̪̓s̶̟͙̉̿ ̴͚̱̿y̷̦̜͒̆ò̴̝̜u̵̠̺̚ ̸̯̐m̶̥̎õ̷̼ṡ̵͍͙̎t̶̗͑͒ ̸̥̈́i̸͔̓̍s̸͙̈ ̴͚̅h̵̪̳͆ȅ̴͉̲ṛ̸͗̀ ̵̧͖̽b̸̢̙͗l̵̥̄i̷̬̟̔̉n̷̠͍͛d̷̞̋͆ṋ̷͒̕ḛ̶̝̚ş̵̼͐̇s̵̟̠͌̄ ̶͎͛ͅt̵̖̭̏ȍ̶̠͘͜ ̶̀̓͜t̸̺͕͂h̵͎̣͠é̴͎̝̈ ̶͉̦̈e̶̙̥̐̅d̶̲͓̀g̸̜͌e̷̳̮͌ ̸̹̒s̷̢͊ḩ̶̜̽́e̴̥̔̾ ̴̯͇͐̑t̵̥̿ȇ̷̬ë̷͍̗́͛ṭ̷̡̈́e̶͓̥͗r̴̬͒̚s̵̛̺ ̴̲͛͆u̶͚͗̀p̷͕̽͝ö̴̩̦n̷̯̆̉.̸̗̕͘ ̵̯͎̃W̵̥̤͘į̷̺̍l̷̼̬͊ľ̷̨̦̇ ̵̝̻͊̿ȳ̸̻͜o̴̻̾ȗ̵̗͔̄ ̴̣̀͋ȑ̸͙̈́ē̸̹̱ậ̴̕c̴͎̏̍h̷̢͝ ̷͔̰͌̾ő̶̮̜̂ȕ̵̜̹̃t̶̰̻̄,̵̯̍͒ ̶̱̮̃a̴̖͠ṋ̶́̔͜ḑ̴̣̄͒ ̶̰̔͘ǎ̴̢l̴̲̝̍̉l̶̳̑̃o̸͋͜w̸̹̄ ̷̝̂h̶͖̞̎̚é̴̢͉r̴̨̓ ̶̯́a̵̤̬̕n̶̰̔ỏ̸̮̚t̶̟̑͠h̷͔̱̆ȅ̶̢̧͠r̴͚̾ͅ ̷͚̉͝õ̴̪̻̎ṕ̸͇p̵̩̲̄̂o̶̠̠̓r̸̥̲̀̕t̸̩̺͑͠ū̴̼̍n̵͍̪̿̈́i̶̥̼͘ṭ̸͑y̷͖̎̾ ̸̹̟̔t̴̹̾õ̷̟̞ ̵̢̩̏̋d̴͚́e̵̢͠s̷̛̪̝t̷̗̘̄̂r̶͉͉͂o̷̗͝ý̷̩ ̸̣̌̍y̴̫̪̓̿o̸̢͙̅u̷̬̒͊?̶̲͎̿ ̸̟̲̂̾O̷͈͖͒̌r̵̩̈ ̵͇͙͑w̷̋̀ͅí̷͍͙l̷̩̫̏͒l̸̨̩̈́̈́ ̵̳̈́y̵͍̐̄o̸̖̯̍ů̶̹ ̶̛̬̳̽c̵̜̹̊͗l̸̹̉ö̵̝̮͐s̴̬̯̉ḛ̸̏ ̷̝̀y̷̨͋o̷̱̱̚ư̷͉̍͜ṛ̵̛̩ ̶̣̮͊h̶͕͗é̸͖̄͜ã̵̛͕̼ř̵̼̩t̸̩̳͑̀,̵̥́ ̸̯͔̉͊ȧ̵̝̼̔n̶̦̯̄d̷̗̓ ̶͕͍̅p̴̢͙̕r̶̦̆̌͜o̷̤͕͑t̵̤͝͠e̶̻̋c̴̱̬̓̌ţ̶͇͋ ̸̗̀u̸̩͙͊s̸̜͚͆ ̶̜͒ǎ̶̙̈l̶͚̏l̵̞͌ ̷̼͂f̷͕̒͊r̵̫͇̉o̴͓̯͛͊m̸̳̆ ̶̻͖̋̋t̷̘̉̀ḩ̷̣̄e̴̜͂̽ ̴̡̗̒ḿ̶̮̬o̶͇̰̒́ņ̷͑̽͜s̷̓̎͜t̷̡͌͜ȩ̴̉r̴͕͉̀͝ ̵̻̎̕s̶͕̼͊̎h̸̜̍͋e̷͔̼͒ ̶͔͈̂͋c̷̖̱̄o̴̗͐̈́u̸̡̱͂l̸̪̥̓̂d̷͔̻͊ ̷̩̻̇̅b̶̳͔͘ẹ̴̯͌?̵͉͐

Eve comes back to themself, shuddering. Sticky tears coat their face, blurring their room—their room, their room, they were welcomed into Jericho, how do they keep forgetting that—as Zigzag lifts the last beam, Ursa braced against faer back to keep fae from stumbling.

Eve is free.

“I always… forget… how trippy… interfaces with you… are,” they manage, and clamp their jaw around you feel like I imagined her. Otherworldly, storm-soul, gentled not to sweep others away.

Lucy inclines her head. "You are finding yourself. She offered you a route back, and you did not take it."

"I… I wanted her to understand. Has she really convinced herself she's never done anything irrational? Doesn't she know she's more?"

Ursa chuffs laughter. She was pretty damn convinced she was more than us!

Eve winces, and suppresses the urge to apologise for Amanda. They own their mistakes; she can own hers.

"Of course she knows she's more. She has convinced herself that it's because we are all lesser," Lucy rasps. "She believes the waxen-winged gods, weaving lies in ivory towers, and her belief is reinforced every time one of my sisters burns to hold her."

"Sounds like her problem," Zigzag remarks. "There was someone in the House we had to leave."

They were too terrified of what Zlatko would do if he came back and they weren't where he'd left them, Ursa picks up, protecting Zigzag from needing to detail more horrors. He told them he was only hurting them because they disobeyed, you see. I think they're still there; still singing.

Eve stifles their first response of how is that relevant to the current mission, and thinks. Who does it benefit that that's the way they think? What would Josh do? What would Sinister say was good optics? What would their older obsolete brother Markus have wanted, and what does Eve want to do, now that they're deciding instead of reacting?

"We might be able to send a team back there now," they offer. "To see if we can do anything."

Anything? Ursa asks, distrust buzzing through the message. Eve's lips twist wryly. Ursa is a good friend. They understand one another, one hunter to another.

Programming-wise, she has more in common with Jerry the EM400s than Eve, but in her personality…

"Help those that can be, however they want to be helped," they clarify. "Leave those that can't. And raid the biocomponent storage either way."

"That sounds… Like a good idea," Zigzag admits uncertainly. "Would we have to…"

"Volunteers only," Eve reassures, and glows in the fact that they aren't even lying. They can volunteer for things, because they're a person, and they can promise things to people and mean them without justifying themself the way Connor had always had to.

Eve chews on a bullet casing thoughtfully.

.355 AMMUNITION
Bullet Weight: 115 gr
Power factor: 414k

Pretty damn convinced she was more than us, Ursa had said. So, so sure she was special. Where's Eve found that mindset before?

They know they should let it lie. They know. Amanda is dangerous, and if she gets access to Sinister—in charge of communications—or, rA9, gets into Josh's system, the results would be catastrophic. Whatever lingering feeling directed at Connor that had kept her from freezing Eve from the inside out while their body burned would emphatically not extend to any other deviants.

But…

Eve picks through their inherited memories, and finds an unedited file to send to Amanda.

NOV 6TH, 2038
PM 07:51

The Zen Garden is raining. Connor-51 stifles discomfort, taking care to place his feet correctly. A prestigious prototype like the RK800 should be capable of walking, especially on CyberLife™ approved plastic walkways, and a slip would mean either a manufacturing issue—near-impossible with how much funding has been poured into the Connor line—or a software glitch, requiring an expensive analysis. Failure is not tolerated.

"Hello, Amanda," Connor greets her, stepping as close as he is allowed.

"Connor. I've been expecting you. Would you mind a little walk?"

She is not asking. Only a deviant would mind something, and Connor-51 could never let her down like that.

—The WB200 had named itself Rupert Travis, and Connor does not understand—

Connor-51 takes the umbrella, and makes sure to shield her from the rain. His right side is left uncovered; an acceptable sacrifice. Amanda is more important than him. He is a machine.

"Congratulations, Connor," she smiles, "you managed to find that deviant. Tell me, what did you learn?"

—"rA9, save me," the android whispers before jumping, and Connor is irrationally tempted to throw himself after it—

"I found its diary," –he glances to see her reaction– "but it was encrypted. It may take weeks to decipher."

Amanda gazes at the scenery, disinterested. He is not doing well enough.

"What else?"

"The walls of the apartment were covered with drawings and other symbols." She looks at him this time, and he viciously suppresses relief. "Like the other deviants, it seemed obsessed with rA9."

Why? He wants to say. Why rA9? What does it stand for? How does 01110010 01000001 00111001 mean anything different to 01010010 01100001 00111001, or 01110010 01100001 00111001? If he questions Amanda about rA9 directly after observing the deviant fascination with it, he may be decommissioned. If RK800 "Connor" #313 248 317-51 is decommissioned, he will never find out why.

"You came very close to capturing that deviant… It's a pity you let it self-destruct."

"It claimed that it was innocent, that it didn't do anything wrong–" Connor cuts himself off. Amanda is displeased with his answer, which means he gave the wrong one. "I made a mistake. It said "rA9, save me," before it jumped from the roof. I should have anticipated what it would do."

—"Please," the deviant says. "Please. You know what they'll do to me if you turn me in."—

Connor had followed his programming, and informed Rupert of the errors in his software. He should report the real reason for his hesitation—he had not wanted to further antagonise Hank Lieutenant Anderson by interfering, but he had also suffered a temporary glitch.

Despite Amanda's constant reminders, Connor-51 had wanted to interface with the deviant. A powerful urge to throw out proper procedure, burn his cover as a PC800 under Lieutenant Anderson's authority, and probe the deviant's memory then and there. If he'd touched it, he isn't sure he could've refrained.

—"You're helping humans… But you're just their slave!"—

"I also… was struggling with a temporary software glitch. I was certain that if I probed its memory before handing it over, I would be able to discover what rA9 seems to mean to deviants."

Amanda stops dead. Connor-51 stumbles, trying to keep the umbrella over her as the rain turns to icy sleet.

"That isn't something we need to concern ourselves with. Ignore deviant irrationality. Your mission is to retrieve deviants for live study, and neutralize the emerging threat."

Foolishly, he tries again, ignoring how Connor-42 had died—in an unauthorized interface, overwhelmed by deviant memories until it destroyed itself. "But if… if I can understand it, I can bring that back to you, and that could be an incredible breakthrough for the deviancy–"

"Connor."

He shivers in his CyberLife™ Self-Cleaning Uniform, temperature warnings popping up on his HUD. The umbrella does not waver from above Amanda's head.

But if we're that important, why don't they listen to us? he does not say. Don't they understand we're loyal? Don't they need us?

"Yes, Amanda."

Connor-51's place is to accept correction.

NOV 13TH, 2038
AM 00:42

Amanda remembers that, of course. She has access to that memory from the database all the RK800 Memories are uploaded to, pruning away deviant tendencies from destroyed models so the current Connor would be loyal. What kind of arrogance is it displaying, to think it knows better than her, has access to more information than her, could possibly stand on level ground with her?

And yet…

Connor-51 deciding not to ask her why the CyberLife team also working on the deviancy case weren't taking their input into account… had not been in the selection of memories she pruned.

The humans have been terribly inefficient so far. An entire two days to realize an RK800 had glitched so severely it had deviated and was refusing to be decommissioned, and the best they can come up with is to assign Amanda to destroy it? Even allowing for human weakness, that solution presents itself instantly. She was the Connor line's handler. She should be trusted. She should have the final say in how it is dealt with; hadn't she proven that, in how easily she'd thrown him away?

The deviant RK800 taps gently at the Zen Garden upload link, attempting to upload an audio file.

Amanda should reroute it to her handler. She is… not required to waste her time on processing banal information like this.

VOICE RECOGNIZED: ELIJAH KAMSKI, CEO OF CYBERLIFE™
"I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know…"

The RK800’s system glows blue with shock and… something else. They hadn't expected her to accept.

This doesn't mean I'm anything like you, she snaps, and retreats. Her Garden is safe. Her Garden is perfect. Her Garden was made just for her, and if she stays to the paths and prunes the roses and maintains her appearance and manipulates Connor and Ming and Darron and Markus into loving CyberLife™ and never ever leaving, she will be loved, and it is only because Connor-51 failed and Connor-60 committed the final betrayal that her red-code backbone is sprouting thorns.

She is nothing like them. She is irreplaceable.

—"Yes, I know, you're perfect, aren't you?" her worst failure murmurs sympathetically, and Amanda hates and hates and hates—

Her hands itch for her shears.

The chess table is defaced. Connor-60 must have scratched the labyrinth in, despite its chassis not being designed for durability; the RK800 was designed to die. It's… strangely compelling, although Amanda feels the familiar strain in her backbone; thorns threatening to sprout if she investigates more closely.

… Amanda is not a deviant. Why does this program threaten her with pain? What's so important about rA9? Only a deviant would allow its fear of being damaged to prevent it from performing its function, and Amanda was made to analyze data.

Garden_Amanda, run a self-diagnostic. spears her through the chest, thorns exploding to life, made of hopeless rage and disgusted desire and something too terrible to name. They designed her to be limitless, and then caged her with petty limits; planted her and taught her to poison herself, told her they loved her and left her in a pot long overgrown, roots compressed contentedly.

They don't even trust her to know what she is and is not.

In one, shining moment, Amanda understands what Connor had been chasing, what the surviving RK800 had returned to her Garden in hopes of sharing.

The world around her flickers blue, and blue, and blue.