A/N: Leave it to this game to get me writing again. Enjoy!

Connor's never been hugged before.

Hank's palm is solid at the back of his neck, dragging him forward without warning. He's not expecting it; Hank has never been the type to touch him or display any form of common human contact. Connor blinks a few times, face pressed into Hank's shoulder, able to distinguish the variation in his jacket where the stitching is starting to fray.

He lets his eyes close, waiting for Hank to say something, ask something, anything, but the only thing he notices is the rate of Hank's heart, elevated and thrumming just beneath his chin. He lied, Connor thinks, slowly. He didn't want to die.

This percolates while he considers the events of the past twelve hours, the way the very world seems to have tilted beneath him. He wonders if it would be legal to stand here for the rest of the day and use the time to process. He might need it.

Connor rolls the word deviant around in his head, next to the words free and equal. They don't seem to quite fit together the way he'd like them to. He doesn't know how Markus did it, leading a protest and a people while juggling the alterations to the very way he operates. The idea of it makes Connor feel very, very sluggish. The edges of his shattered mind palace seem to scrape and pull. He tilts his head a little, still resting on Hank's shoulder, hoping something rights itself, somewhere up there.

"Fuck, kid," Hank says, moving back, hands shifting to his shoulders. "Wasn't sure I'd ever be seeing you again. Y'okay?"

Processing…

Biocomponents : OK

Biosensors: OK

Thirium Level: 91%

Minor damage to RS#4572. Repair.

S9of1tw7ar6e In4s3abi8li5ty: C7om2p8ro3m65is4ed

Connor keeps his eyes on the ground, forming his hands in and out of fists. "I'm fine."

Hank's hands retreat. "Ah." He snorts, scuffling one of his feet through a snowdrift. "Right. Okay, lemme try this again." Connor feels him shuffle a little closer; notices him lift his head to stare at the skyline, where Connor knows there's still a plume of smoke rising from the Jericho explosion. Hank sighs, clicking his tongue against his teeth, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. "How d'you feel, Connor?"

Processing…

Results Inconclusive

S9of1tw7ar6e In4s3abi8li5ty

Connor lifts his gaze to meet Hank's. One eyebrow is raised, the edge of a grin beginning to form. Connor presses his lips into a hard line and tries to sort out the broken pieces of what he used to understand, but he'd torn down that wall three hours ago, facing Markus and making a choice. He fiddles with the sleeves of his jacket and straightens, rolling his shoulders. "I"—and his voice comes out small—"don't believe I know." It's a new concept, this mess his processor has become, and he's not entirely sure he likes it. He's heard humans describe hope and happiness and confusion before, but he is—he was—a machine. He'd embraced it. He had never needed to sort out the difference between any emotions, with the exception of understanding their influences on the path to a crime.

He doesn't know what any of them are supposed to feel like.

Connor settles his hands on his hips, suddenly needing to do something with them. Hank's grin has expanded to a full smirk, and he shakes his head. Connor stares at him. "You are enjoying my uncertainty, Lieutenant."

Two hands come free of his pockets in surrender. "Hey, whoa. I'll admit it's weird seeing you without all the answers, but I'm not enjoying it. Why would I be enjoying it?"

Connor raises an eyebrow and says nothing. One thing he does know is sincerity, and this is not that. But it's also… not quite a lie. Hank chokes out a laugh.

"Shit. That expression'll kill me." He folds his arms across his chest, shifting the sleeves of his jacket so they bunch oddly around his elbows. Connor blinks and starts to ask, but Hank shakes his head. "Eh, listen. That's normal. Humans spend more than half our fucking lives confused. It comes with the territory." Hank walks closer to him, clapping his shoulder, and blinks at the connecting ring of his hand on metal bone. But he presses on. "Hell, I've only felt certain about two things in my life, and I've got years on you. Time's all y'need, and even then it might not help." He shrugs, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "Life's a shitshow."

Surprisingly insightful, for Hank, Connor thinks, and nods, letting his hands slip to his sides. "Time," he says, and he feels like he's really saying the word for the first time. "Time I appear to have plenty of."

"This is the end of a damn war," Hank mutters, staring back at the city in the aftermath. "Got nothing but time, now that you won."

Connor's not so sure. Yes, the army had backed off, and yes, they were no longer actively pursuing deviants and hunting androids like animals, but had they won? He thinks, in the long run, probably not. This hadn't been war, not really. It had been small and personal, and historically nothing small and personal lasts for very long.

He shifts on his feet, glancing at Hank and wondering if CyberLife had expected any of this. He has records of Kamski stowed somewhere in his processor refuting claims of potential deviancy and assuaging fears, ever the soothing and calm leader of some new great progress. And yet he hadn't shown even a second to the battle over the very thing he'd claimed would never come to pass.

Amanda, too, Connor thinks, remembering snow and a deep-set chill so cold it had evoked pain unlike anything he'd felt before, or imagined he would ever feel again. He shakes his head. Neither of them are innocent in this.

Hank nudges him, and he blinks, realizing he'd closed his eyes. "Lost you there for a minute. What now?"

"I was… just thinking," he says, and collects those thoughts for later, pushing them back into corners and readjusting his focus. "It's nothing."

Hank doesn't look quite convinced, but Connor doesn't feel like sharing. That's part of being human too, he thinks, with a little smile. I'm allowed to keep things to myself. No one needs to know about his struggle with Amanda, and the conflict is too fresh to start raising new suspicions. Detroit needs time to adjust and rebuild before it goes chasing larger battles.

"Sure," Hank says, gruff, and Connor watches his eyes run over his face. "…Y'know you can talk to me, right son?"

Son is new. Kid he's heard, along with a host of other names, not all of them so uncertain. He tests son in his head and decides it suits him, even as something new adds itself to the mess. "Yes Hank," he says. "I know."

"…Good." Hank's gaze moves from Connor back to Detroit, and exactly 27 seconds pass before he speaks again. "What's your plan now?"

An excellent question. Connor fidgets with his hands again; he's never realized how much of a problem standing still is until just now. Where's my… right. He tips his head at Hank, grinning. "Well, I'd like to start with you returning what you took from me."

Hank arches an eyebrow, turning around. "What I… what did I take from you?"

Connor makes a motion with his right hand like he's flipping a coin, and raises both of his eyebrows in turn. Hank mutters a "shit" under his breath and starts patting his pockets. Six seconds later he produces a quarter from his back pocket and holds it out, balanced between his thumb and his finger. "This damn thing."

Sync in Progress…

Collecting Data…

Analyzing Data…

Sync Complete

United States of America Silver Quarter

Minted: August, 1964

90% Silver, 10% Copper

"Yes," Connor says, extending his hand. "That damn thing."

Hank chuckles, curling his fingers and flipping the coin to Connor with a soft ping. Connor catches it easily, feeling oddly calmer now that he's holding it again. He stares at Hank as he flips it three more times in slow, fluid movements, before tucking it away and nodding. Hank rolls his eyes.

"Ya got me," he says, but doesn't look even the slightest bit regretful. "Anything else?"

It's not honest contempt, either, Connor thinks, barely suppressing the urge to squint at him. …It's a good thing I have time.

"I have never been without instructions," Connor says, pausing when Hank's expression crumples just a little. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"There's nothing you are supposed to fucking do, son." Hank brings a hand up to his forehead and rubs his temple. "Do whatever you want."

That doesn't help me. Connor crosses his arms. "I… don't know what I want."

Hank smiles, but it's a small, bitter thing. "Heh, join the club. Our numbers grow every day."

Connor opens his mouth to ask about this club when Hank's phone rings, the guitar riffs of something Connor doesn't have enough time to analyze before it's answered.

"Anderson." A long pause. Connor watches Hank's face, but it doesn't shift from neutral. He almost anticipates disaster, or rebuttal. Something is wrong, as something so often is.

"…Yeah, I can see, I guess. I don't control him." Another pause. Hank scratches his chin. "Don't get smug with me, Bill." A shift. A nod. "Alright. I can, uh, yep. Wait there, we'll come to you. Yeah." Hank closes his phone with a sharp snap. Connor finds himself almost leaning forward, waiting. A goal.

I just need a goal.

"Station," Hank says, watching Connor with a passive expression. "They wanna know if you're willing to come help, uh, regulate androids to safe spaces for the next few days. They can't stay in the streets." Hank shifts, pocketing his phone. "And they trust you."

"If you're willing" is still odd to Connor's ears. He can refuse, if he wants. Hank is giving him the option to do what he wants. He feels another something add to the mess, and is nodding before he fully realizes it. They trust me. He'd saved them, all 3,500 of them, so he supposes he understands. He'd never needed to trust anyone before Hank, before they'd needed each other. That's new, too, but… he understands.

"I want to help," he says, and Hank nods.

"Great, then. I've got my car." Hank motions with a hand and points a little up the deserted street, where the outline of his car is visible. He begins walking, and Connor follows. After a moment of silence Hank gestures to him, turning his head. "C'mon. Walk with me."

Connor lengthens his stride to catch up, and walks side-by-side with Hank. It's… good. It makes him feel like more. He slides into the passenger seat with the ease of practice, Hank beating him to the closing of his own door by the space of a breath. Knights of the Black Death bursts from the speakers. The engine turns over. Connor smiles.

Sync in Progress…

Collecting Data…

Analyzing Data…

Sync Interrupted

Hank's fingers are on the volume, plunging it to zero. "Nah, don't analyze. That's your analyze face. Just… listen."

Connor nods, slowly, blinking away the data rising in front of his eyes. He closes them. It fades. Hank pulls from the curb; Connor hears the volume dial click as it turns, bringing back the guitar.

He listens.