540 Chase Lane

Bloomfield Hills, Michigan

July 5th, 2041

11:32 pm

A picture of the actual house, if you want.

The Bloomfield Hills Township was a relatively safe, gated neighborhood. After all, one does not pay a little over 2 million for a crime-filled shitshow every other night. At least, that was just one of Jamie's reasons for purchasing the property.

Jamie Lyndon was beyond tired; despite having just taken a would-be invigorating shower, his shoulders slumped and his eyes felt like they had 20-pound weights hooked onto each eyelid. Though his body displayed all the signs of needing a good night's sleep, he still planned on taking time to catch up on the news, his favorite shows, and anything else that would slow his racing thoughts to a halt.

"TV, on," Jamie spoke as he dried his full head of wavy, brown hair. If not for the extensive hair transplants he had willingly, even desperately undergone, his hairline likely would have resembled Ben Franklin's in his older age. Though he didn't consider himself a vain main, he did see value in taking care of himself. Especially after his wife and kid walked out of his life about two years ago. What an absolute fucking mess he was, and still, most definitely is.

"Chris?" Jamie called out to the android he'd hired as a...butler, of sorts. Jamie's head snapped up from the book, The Age of Innocence, he had been absorbed in. The Age of Innocence was not only about a tragic, unsatisfying love triangle, but also about the awakening of a people (which is why he thoroughly enjoyed the novel). Edith Wharton was quite the wordsmith.

Chris's LED blinked between yellow and red as his head twitched. He fought for control of his thoughts, which seemed to race by his eyes in endless strings of unreadable code. This wasn't the first time it had happened; he had not only run several diagnostic tests, but also visited the Cyberlife warehouses (which now served as both biocomponent storage facilities and pseudo-android hospitals) for in-depth systemic analyses. Unfortunately, none of his visits or tests could detect anything off with his system or his programs, which was, needless to say, unnerving.

After a few seconds, Chris's LED returned to the blue it normally was. Chris blinked a few more times to recalibrate himself, then put down his book and went to see what Jamie wanted.

Jamie was watching CNN talk about President Parsons' efforts to mend the tensions with the Russian President, , and lessen the hostilities between the two countries' military forces. For once, Jamie wasn't considering strangling the President to put an end to the dishonest, malicious, and generally abhorrent remarks that left his or her mouth. Jamie noticed Chris coming down the stairs, and sent him an easy smile. "Would you mind pouring me a glass of whiskey?" Jamie's gaze returned to the TV, but he added, as an afterthought, "And would you mind handling the dishes? There's not too much, but I pretty much live in the office, so..." he trails off with a chuckle. "You get it."

"Of course," Chris replied, "Neat?"

"You know it, Chris. Thanks a bunch," Jamie answered, completely focused on the TV.

Chris went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured a healthy amount of Bushmills Black Bush Whiskey for Jamie's enjoyment.

Chris opened the drawer in front of him and slipped a chef's knife into the side of one of his boots.

Jamie nodded as Chris gently handed him the glass of whiskey. Jamie gulped down the glass, then let out a hearty sigh from the familiarity of the burn that followed. Chris opened the windows on the first floor, which included the ones in the living room, kitchen, and garage. He also left the back door wide open. Why? He didn't know, but he didn't bother to question it, either.

Chris made his way through the spacious, state-of-the-art kitchen and back into the living room. He was careful not to make a lot of noise as he removed one side of the curtains, then the other. He wrapped the ends around his hands to create a thick, taut strip of fabric, and quietly, gradually maneuvered closer to Jamie.

Jamie's eyes had begun to close for longer intervals of time; he recognized the blanket of drowsiness that was draping over him in increasingly stronger waves, but hadn't thought of a reason to get up just yet.

Which is why it was so easy for Chris to throw the curtain in front of him, yank him back, and attempt to strangle him.

Jamie dropped the whiskey glass, which shattered upon the ground and left traces of whiskey on the mahogany floor, which Jamie would have gotten upset about if he wasn't being fucking strangled at the time. Jamie gasped and wheezed as he shoved his fingers under the cloth to buy himself some more time to think of an escape.

Jamie managed to punch Chris in his Thirium pump, which sent him reeling back and clutching at the middle of his chest. Jamie scrambled away, almost cutting his feet on the glass shards, but somehow managing to avoid the largest pieces.

Jamie ran to the front door and frantically turned the doorknob, but, strangely enough, the security system seemed to have either malfunctioned or shut down entirely.

In short, he was fucked. Chris had already gotten up and was walking toward him at an alarmingly fast pace.

Jamie wasted no time in running to the kitchen and grabbing a chef's knife to defend himself with. He tried to hop through a window, but in the middle of pulling himself through, he felt Chris grab the back of his t-shirt and yank him back into that god-forsaken house.

Chris threw Jamie on the floor and menacingly approached him, drawing the knife from his boot. Jamie got back to his feet and moved to the end of the kitchen island, trying to put as many physical obstacles between him and Chris's hauntingly red LED and equally, if not more threatening, knife-twirling hand.

When Chris got too close, Jamie slashed at his throat, but Chris leaned back just enough to dodge the attack. Jamie then tried to go for his stomach, but Chris was, once again, too fast, an inhuman demonstration of efficiency and almost practiced skill.

Jamie noted that Chris had put a hand on the top of the island to block Jamie from, most likely, the closest landline. His phone was upstairs, and the security system wasn't working, and Chris was clearly not going to call the police because he was the fucking threat. 'How unlucky can one person possibly be?' he thought to himself before going for Chris's side, hoping to critically damage a biocomponent. Chris was, of course, faster; he had likely used the scanning feature of his optical units to slow down the attempt, and as a result, block it with his own knife. Both of their arms were shaking as they tried to push each other away with the bulk of their knives, but, inevitably, Chris easily won out over Jamie, even managing to slam Jamie's hand down on the counter so hard that he hissed in a breath and released the knife, which slid across the island and, as a result, entirely out of reach.

Chris's other hand came up and caught Jamie's throat in a bruising grip; after dropping the knife, Chris pushed Jamie up against the fridge, strangling him with so much force that Jamie's feet dangled above the ground and kicked at the air, hoping to find purchase on something before he passed out and left himself at Chris's mercy.

And find purchase he did; he kicked Chris straight in his artificial fucking groin, which made Chris's grip immediately release, and his hands went to protectively cup himself to prevent further attacks.

Even while experiencing a feeling akin to wanting to vomit, Chris managed to sweep Jamie's legs out from under him, causing him to slam on to the ground. Chris hobbled over and put a foot on one of Jamie's legs, putting pressure on the back of his knee. Jamie screamed in pain, hearing his bones fracture and crunch together as they were slowly crushed under Chris's weight.

Though his LED was blinking and still very much red, Chris 'regained his composure' and flipped Jamie over. Jamie hiccuped in breaths, feebly reaching down to protect his knee from further abuse. Chris could do nothing but watch as Jamie looked Chris in the eye, asking things like "What's wrong?" and "Why are you doing this, Chris?", and pleading, no, begging for his life.

Chris thought nothing of the way the tears streamed down Jamie's cheeks, or the utter betrayal on his face, even as he moved to straddle his chest, pinned Jamie's arms with his knees, and wrapped his fingers around his throat to finish the job.

In that moment, strangling Jamie was just a task to be completed.

An objective.

Of course, Chris never answered him. Just stared back at Jamie with his green, soulless optical units that didn't blink very often. Maybe not at all.

As Chris's grip tightened, Jamie could feel the pressure in his face increase, could feel the blood being trapped underneath his skin, turning it from red, to blue, to purple. As if he were finally drowning after a long-fought battle with waves of self-hatred, violence, and fear, Jamie gladly succumbed to his mostly collapsed windpipe and airless lungs. After another minute, he stopped moving entirely.

Chris slowly got off of Jamie, and moved to kneel by his side, checking his pulse through his jugular.

Nothing.

Chris's LED went from red to yellow, but continued to flash as he changed clothes, threw his soiled clothing in the wash, and left through the backdoor, hands in his pockets as he casually strolled down the street.

It was around 1:00 am when Hank begrudgingly rolled over and answered his cell, tiredly grumbling a "Who is it?" into the phone.

"Anderson, it's Fowler. Let me tell you, it's a homicide, and there is some fucked up shit over here, so we need you and your plastic plaything over here right-the-hell-now, got it?"

"Urgghhh," Hank grumbled, running a hand over his face and glancing at the clock on top of his bedside table. Of course. Too fuckin' early. "It's fuckin' 1 in the morning, Fowler. This better be a goddamn good case, or I swear to god I'll-"

"Don't push it, Anderson. Lucky your ass is still on the force after you socked Perkins in the goddamn nose, so if I were you, I'd shut the hell up and get your asses over here," Fowler reiterated, almost yelling. "If you want to keep being a Lieutenant, the address is 540 Chase Lane. Don't make me regret this, Hank. Am I clear?" Fowler's irritation was almost tangible through the phone.

Hank paused, not wanting to admit Fowler was probably right, that absolute fuckin' prick. Hank knew he was already bored out of his mind, and couldn't stand the unspoken tension of being at home when he should've still been on the clock. He couldn't even imagine how Connor felt, not having solved a case in a while. Both of them could use some action. "Fuck it. We're on our way," Hank replied, hanging up before Fowler could offer any more choice words.

"Connor!" Hank called, pulling on a pair of jeans and a Knights of the Black Death made his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed his usual coat from the back of a chair and threw it on, noting that his boots were already by the door. Then, he started looking around for Connor.

Hank had invited Connor back to his home after the events of November 11th, 2038; Connor willingly, if not enthusiastically, strolled alongside him after hearing Hank's proposal. Hank couldn't help but wonder why Connor hadn't wanted to join the rest of his android friends, but hadn't bothered to ask. He just chalked it up to their friendship, and with Connor wanting to be free, that would include living freely, which mean deciding where and how he wanted to live. Thus, choosing to live outside of the android 'sphere' was, inadvertently, fulfilling the wishes of his people. Connor probably hadn't thought of it like that, though. Not yet. Even after two years, Connor still wasn't used to the notion of individualism, let alone free will.

Hank spotted him on the couch; though he looked asleep, Hank knew better than that, because he was still an android, and androids do not sleep. From what Connor had told him, he was in some kind of stasis mode, which, he guessed, was to do whatever updates and shit he needed while his system took a break. His suspicions were proven to be true as Connor slowly opened his eyes (which he had, per Hank's request, closed so as to not make Hank uncomfortable) and sat up in a vampire-esque manner. Hank would have laughed at the unnatural, borderline creepy nature of Connor's motions if he hadn't known him. Old habits die hard.

"Connor, we have a fresh case, but we gotta get our asses in gear or I might end up boring myself to death from being jobless," he joked, not bothering to mention his crippling alcoholism, which had actually put him in a decent position for an early demise. Not that Hank cared. Wasn't really important at the moment. What did matter was trying not to just move on, but also adjust to the changes in his living situation. Their living situation.

Connor immediately swung his legs over the side of the couch, stood up with his ridiculously impeccable posture, and went to adjust his non-existent tie, but stopped, confused when his fingers met empty air.

A smile took over a corner of Hank's mouth as he noticed that Connor actually had a physical habit; this reassured him to no end, to see Connor becoming a little more Connor and a little less android every day, even if it was just a little thing. He wondered just how many more habits he hadn't noticed.

Connor grinned, embarrassed at the irrationality of his motions, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Well, if you're ready, I'm ready, Lieutenant-"

"Sweet Jesus, Hank. It's Hank, now, ok? We're not at work yet, so no need to be so goddamn formal all the time, all right?" Hank scolded Connor, making him shift where he stood. Again, old habits die hard; it would have hurt to hear Connor call him that if not for the way Connor's life had been before. Literally every action, every word had been specially designed, programmed into his very being. Rewiring himself from the inside out was probably the hardest thing Connor ever had to do, but Hank was more than glad to help him get used to everything. They were friends; at that point, good friends, and they needed each other to act like it.

"Of course. Hank. Sorry," Connor scratched the back of his neck and looked away, genuinely feeling uncertain of how to act around Hank, and, worse, like he was still trying to figure out how to act 'alive', despite having been programmed to integrate into human society. Perhaps Cyberlife's notion of humanity was flawed. Or maybe they exacerbated pre-existing issues regarding human interaction.

Another one, Hank thought. Haven't seen him do that before. Looks like a fuckin' kicked puppy.

"It's fine, Connor," Hank sighed, clapping a reassuring hand on Connor's shoulder and leveling him with a genuine smile. "Let's go look at a bloody, disgusting crime scene at 1:30 in the fuckin' morning, all right?"

Connor laughed, a light sound that both surprised and intrigued Hank.

Too much shit goin' on tonight, Hank thought as he held open the front door for Connor after an obligatory and enthusiastic petting session for Sumo. Can't wait to deal with more.