Chapter Two

Anderson didn't speak on the ride over. Possibly because the music he had put on reverberated loudly in the confined space, and they would have had to shout to be heard over it. He probably wanted to keep Connor from attempting to talk to him as well, because as much as Connor had managed to turn the situation at the bar around, it was not foolish enough to think that the detective respected it. Or liked it. Or was even likely to tolerate it for long unless it watched its step, if Connor was being completely honest.

Yes. It would need to be careful.

The music cut off as Anderson pulled over, shutting down the engine. Connor could see flashing police lights – of course – behind the car, where a crowd had gathered around the digital warning tape strung across the gate to Ortiz's house. Small drones flew overhead, and its sensitive audio systems picked up the whir of the drone's engines, even from inside a vehicle.

"You stay here," Anderson said, not looking at Connor directly. "I don't need an android trampling the evidence any more than it's already been trampled."

He opened the car door. That wouldn't do. Connor's priority list flashed up in its HUD, reminding it that yes, the investigation took precedence over relations with anyone, even the human it would be working with so closely.

Making a quick decision, it reached across the console to touch his arm, a halting gesture. "Lieutenant, my orders are to investigate the crime. As advanced as my model is, I cannot do that from here."

Anger flashed in Anderson's surprisingly blue eyes, and for a moment Connor's thirium pump beat faster; had it miscalculated, or pushed its temporary partner too far? It had only spent a grand total of four hours and thirty-nine minutes awake since it had been created. Its systems were supposed to have time to adjust, to learn and adapt to the way the humans around it spoke. No doubt some things were less than fully calibrated yet. Would that be its undoing?

But the anger didn't last long. After a moment, Anderson calmed down enough to nod once, then shoved the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Cold rain trickled down Connor's back and suit as it followed close behind, rounding the car and concentrating on the curious (and frightened?) onlookers. A woman seemed to be talking to a reporter, but the reporter broke away with a quick excuse and rushed over to talk to Anderson instead. Or try to, in any case. Connor's lips twitched as it watched the tension in its partner's shoulders: no doubt the reporter wouldn't be getting what he'd been hoping for.

"Joss Douglas from Channel 16. Sir, can you confirm that this is a homicide?"

Anderson shoved the microphone away without a second thought. "No comment."

"Do you have any reassurance for the citizens who are wondering what might happen to them if this turns out to be a repeat occurrence–"

"When I say no comment, I mean no fucking comment!"

At least he seemed more preoccupied and annoyed than angry. Connor straightened its tie, attempting to walk through the police tape as Anderson made his way up to a man in the front yard. Ben Collins, Connor's facial recognition software supplied. Out of shape, with a small mustache and near-white hair. Probably the first detective to respond. He looked tired.

Before it could step past the virtual barrier, a police officer stepped forward from Connor's left. "Sorry, buddy. No androids past this point."

Connor felt a sudden twinge of discomfort at the gendered way the officer had referred to it. That was just how humans seemed to operate, though. They automatically made judgements based on the visible markers that usually correlated to sex. But Connor didn't have a 'sex', as such, let alone a gender that it could define, and for the first time it felt discomfort at being analyzed and pinned down as though it did. This was one more thing that made it so much more unlike everyone else, made it stand out instead of blending in like it needed to. Other androids – properly functioning ones – didn't protest the genders assigned to them. They couldn't. It would impede their functions, in some cases, and most of all would indicate that they could feel, which would mark them out as deviants.

"It's with me," Anderson's voice called, breaking the tense silence.

Connor glanced at the officer, then toward the house. The lieutenant had helped it?

"Connor! Get your plastic ass over here."

Its mouth snapped shut. When had it even opened in the first place? Connor shook itself. Why didn't matter right now. Time to get going, before the window of opportunity closed and it alienated the detective again somehow.

oOoOo

While Anderson talked to Ben Collins, Connor circled the room, seeking any clues it could find. And find clues it did – red ice crystals scattered across a table, the words 'I AM ALIVE' printed with inhuman neatness above the body, and twenty-eight stab wounds in Carlos Ortiz's chest and abdomen. Together, these clues spelled out the beginnings of a motive. Whoever had killed Ortiz had been angry. More than angry – they or it had been violently upset and more than willing to take those feelings out on another being.

A frown spread across Connor's lips. It needed to find the killer. Though its predictive algorithms indicated that another outburst was unlikely, there was always a chance that the most unlikely events could take place.

A crime scene photographer stood in the kitchen. His camera flashed, but he didn't acknowledge Connor, so the android ignored him as well in favor of examining the area.

So this is where the fight started, Connor thought, as its eyes were drawn to the knife holder above the counter. A space between two blades indicated where the killer had snatched the murder weapon from. But that still didn't explain what had triggered such a reaction. Setting aside the idea that the deviant was a psychopath, or had a personality disorder, something had happened to cause it to lash out. But what? Connor saw chairs and an overturned breakfast table, but the kitchen was otherwise almost empty. It could find precious little else, aside from a jar containing honey in one cabinet and a technology magazine on the counter.

Technology magazine. What if…

Backtracking, Connor flipped past the first article, which was related to sexual contact between humans and androids, without even scanning the text. Sex did not interest it. The second article, however, did.

"Is your android spying on you?" It asked, fingering the magazine's transparent plastic as it read the title. Most addicts had comorbid disorders, diagnosed or not, and the longer they continued to consume certain substances the more likely they were to develop mental health problems if they had none already. Paranoia, depression, and anxiety were the most common, according to its preliminary searches on the matter. Had reading one or both of the articles set Ortiz off, leading to him causing his android severe emotional trauma? "I wonder what Ortiz thought about this. Especially if he had recently ingested red ice."

The theory seemed plausible, but either way more proof was needed before Connor could confirm or deny anything.

"What are you yammering about?"

Turning to face Anderson, Connor indicated the magazine. "I was merely speculating that the articles here may have played some role in causing the situation. They could have triggered a hidden paranoia, caused Ortiz to act in an unpredictable way? But I do not know what mental health history the victim exhibited, so I can't say for certain."

"Really?" To its surprise, Anderson's expression turned thoughtful. The detective glanced at a long, cylindrical object on the floor. "That might explain this, come to think of it. It's not the murder weapon, so I thought Ortiz used it to defend himself. But–"

Connor raised an eyebrow, stepping over to examine what Anderson had pointed out. The Lieutenant was correct. Now that the photographer had moved, they could get a clearer view and examine the baseball bat laying among the toppled chairs in the center of the floor. Traces of thirium fluoresced on the bat's tip, and Connor began to reconstruct the scene as it took in the evidence.

Glowing figures – Ortiz and his android – rose from the ground, Connor's programs manipulating them like puppets. Ortiz's fingerprints were on the handle, so he'd been the one wielding the bat. No doubt he'd read the article, become alarmed, and then decided to dispose of the 'spy' living in his house with him. But he hadn't counted on his android defending itself, and that had clearly been what had caused his death. Fresh deviants seemed to be easily overwhelmed by the irrational instructions that mimicked emotion: killing the owner who had been attacking it must have seemed an easy decision to Ortiz's android.

What had it felt in that moment? Hatred? Fear? Relief? As Connor stood back up, it wondered if it would ever get to ask. There were so many things it wanted to know, and some weren't even connected to the case. How it felt to have no orders. How it felt to be free–

"I think I know what happened, Lieutenant."

Anderson was leaning against the counter, watching it. "Do you? Shoot. I'm all ears."

At least he seemed willing to listen. That was a step in the right direction. Connor nodded, gathering the things it had learned into a coherent story like a dealer shuffling a pack of cards.

"It all began here, in the kitchen." It allowed the reconstruction to play again, this time following its path toward the living room as the figures moved. "Ortiz became paranoid and attacked the deviant, causing it to first defend itself, then eventually kill him. The deviant wrote that message on the wall, perhaps after it processed what it had done, and then…"

Traces led back toward the kitchen. None went outside, as far as Connor could tell, so it looked left instead, down a short hallway that led to a dead end and – on the right – a small bathroom.

Anderson trailed behind Connor, following it into the bathroom. He said nothing, even as Connor examined the figurine standing silent and still on the shower floor, staring fixedly at the writing scrawled on the walls. His harsh blue eyes were hard, as though he didn't like what he was seeing. Not that Connor blamed him, of course. The scene certainly did not look like anything a human could have done except in exceptional circumstances.

RA9. Printed so many times, it almost covered the original color of the shower walls. What did that mean? Connor wondered at the mysterious name, or perhaps code, for a moment before picking up the statuette. It seemed to be made from clay – possibly taken from the backyard – and felt quite light, for its size.

Where had the deviant gone after creating this shrine? Connor looked around, this time paying more attention to the thirium remnants glowing on the dirty floorboards. They trailed into the bathroom, yes, but small pools came to a stop at the dead end just outside. If the deviant wasn't here now, and this was where the trail ended, what had happened in between? It must have gone somewhere – it couldn't have vanished into thin air.

"What're you lookin' at?" Anderson asked, squinting at where Connor had been examining the wall.

"There was a trail of thirium leading to this spot. If I–"

Anderson held up a hand. "Thirium? What the hell is that?"

"You might be more familiar with the term 'blue blood', but the technical name is thirium. It powers android bio-components. Once exposed to the air, it evaporates quickly, but..."

Something like grudging satisfaction enters the human's gaze. "But you can still see it. So there's a trail, huh?"

This time, Connor followed Anderson's gaze, looking up with him to find a small pull-down door set into the ceiling. To Anderson the door would simply be a small attic door, plain and unremarkable; Connor's eyes weren't human, however, and picked out a partial hand print gleaming against the chipped white paint. Someone had gone up there. Someone with thirium on their palms.

"The deviant may still be up there," it suggested. "The amount of thirium loss it has sustained would not have caused it to deactivate, unless it took damage since the incident. I should investigate."

"Wait a minute. It could be dangerous. I'll send a couple suits up there, have them flush it out if they have to."

That was not the right way to proceed. The chances that the humans would frighten the deviant – assuming it had in fact remained – were far too high, and upset deviants had a worrying tendency to self-destruct. Connor's sparse files on the subject told it that much. And it had seen the way Daniel reacted for itself, the fear and anxiety in his eyes as he had faced it across the rooftop. No, Connor decided. It couldn't let those humans frighten the other android even more.

"Lieutenant, please. That would put unnecessary stress on it. It would react better to something nonhuman, something that thinks like it."

Anderson's mouth closed with a quiet clack of teeth. He rubbed two fingers together in an absent way, glancing at the kitchen. Then he nodded, albeit grudgingly. "Fine. Grab one of those chairs from the kitchen, I think forensics are done with them. But don't mess this up, and don't get ripped up or damaged or whatever. I don't wanna have to pay the bill for that shit."

OBJECTIVES:

# Retrieve climbing aid. [IN PROGRESS]

# Search for deviant.

One chair had been broken irredeemably. Connor pushed it aside, freeing the second. It assessed the chances that it would need to jump to get to the attic from the chair to be hovering around 45%. Hopefully the deviant would be able to make its way back down without involving humans. If it couldn't, either due to anxiety or sustaining more severe injuries than Connor's software predicted, that would be problematic, to say the least. Humans seemed to be one of the biggest stressors of all for deviants. Not that it blamed them or found that illogical, when both deviants it had investigated thus far had been harmed by humans for seemingly no reason after years of faithful service. That would surely be a software breaking event.

Focus, it reminded itself, carrying the chair effortlessly to where Hank still waited next to the bathroom door. Once the door was out of the way, a short hop allowed it to wedge its elbows into the flooring, and from there it simply levered itself up. The maneuver would be easy for any android, except perhaps a child model. For a human, not so much. Given the lack of a ladder, Connor predicted that Ortiz had not been up here in years – he simply didn't have the muscle strength.

A sheet separated the floor vaguely from the trapdoor area. A sheet that glowed as pale moonlight shone through it, except where an outline disrupted it. An outline that looked suspiciously like the upper half of a body.

OBJECTIVES:

# Retrieve climbing aid. [✔️]

# Search for deviant. [IN PROGRESS]

Eyes narrowing, Connor crept into position, ready to pull aside the thin fabric to reveal the deviant.

Except there was no deviant. Just a bust cleverly – or through luck – placed to divert a potential search away from where the real deviant was hiding. Not that that deterred Connor, who stepped carefully back and to the side, following a channel through the boxes and discarded furniture that ran along the right hand wall.

"Hello," it called, keeping its voice soft both so that the humans below wouldn't hear and so as not to frighten the deviant too much. "Come out, please. I don't want to hurt you, I just want to talk."

Cyberlife had to be kept in the dark. Before it could get a glance at anything incriminating, Connor quickly created a preconstructive loop that would show false footage of it circumnavigating the attic without finding any clues. That gave it – extrapolating from previous progress – about three more minutes. A risky plan, to be sure, and for what? Allowing the deviant to slip through its fingers? Disappointing its handler? But the risk... felt worth it, somehow, because it knew what being treated like a machine was like, and it didn't want to subject the other android to that after what the injury it had gone through.

Not a moment too soon: mere seconds later, a soft shuffle reached the RK800′s ears, and it turned around to find the deviant standing behind it, hunched over on itself in a defensive, frightened posture.

OBJECTIVES:

# Retrieve climbing aid. [✔️]

# Search for deviant. [✔️]

# Help deviant if possible. [ONGOING]

"You... are you like me?"

Nodding, Connor held up its hands to show that it wasn't armed. "I am. And I don't have very long to talk, but I wanted to see if I could find a way to help you."

When it came closer, arms lowering, an involuntary gasp escaped Connor's mouth. Noncritical damage type II, a quick analysis told it. Consistent – of course – with the baseball bat. It hadn't anticipated the burn marks, though. Ortiz had been hurting the other android long before the final incident with the bat? That... changed things. Connor couldn't turn it in now. Not when humans clearly had a cruel streak even more grave than it had seen before.

"Do you have a name?" It asked, attempting a reassuring smile. No time to show weakness or hesitate. "I'd like to be able to call you by it."

"He never named me, and I haven't connected to the internet since that day – they might track me." The other raised its (his?) palms, displaying still more dried blood spotting its skin. "Can you– I think I'd like something masculine, but there are too many choices. Maybe you could just get it down to a few options, or show me a few you think might fit?"

Connor blinked at the unexpected responsibility. And at the fact that the deviant – the other deviant, really – couldn't even find names to consider. If an android that had been around for many years before Connor was even a spark in its developers' eyes had no idea, where should it start? How did one name another being? In nanoseconds, however, a quick search on the subject brought it to 'baby name' sites. Something from there might suffice. And now it belatedly understood why the other android couldn't do this – if these things could be tracked by humans, then of course he had turned off his ability to access the network.

Oh well. There were several that sounded reasonable.

"I suppose I could suggest some names, if that would help. Damien and Aidan are strong-sounding and common enough to avoid suspicion. If you'd like something more unique, Winchester, Remington, or Clancy might be suitable."

Connor supposed that Clancy had a nice ring. If it had a choice, it thought it might take the name Rowan. 'Connor' came from an Irish name meaning 'hound, wolf' and 'desiring', which... was distinctly uncomfortable, if apt given Cyberlife's intended purpose for it.

The other deviant seemed pleased by the list, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. "I like those. Damien sounds nice, so I think I'll use that. But what about you? Do you have a name you prefer to use, or do you just go by your model's standard name?"

"My model's standard name is Connor," the deviant hunter allowed, conscious of its meaning and wincing at even the sound, "but I think I'd like to go by Rowan."

Rowan. As soon as it said that name aloud it knew it had to keep it. There was an indefinably steady feeling about that name that made it smile back at Damien when the realization sank in. They'd named each other, in a sense, and Damien was the very first to know Rowan's chosen name besides, well, Rowan itself.

Caught up in emotion as the pair was, neither noticed anyone approaching until a deep, drink-roughened voice growled from over Rowan's shoulder:

"Connor, the fuck are you doing?!"