Archive of Our Own ^beta

North can’t believe this. She really can’t.

She says so, out loud.

“I was not expecting this outcome either,” says the deviant hunter.

He (not it, North doesn’t care how mechanical he is, he is a he not an it) has been chasing them down, because of course he was. Because he is a deviant hunter, and Jericho made the debatably-wise decision to try another supply run for extra thirium. But they were too exposed this time, and the police got wind of it, and suddenly CyberLife’s perfectly-trained little Doberman and his human keeper were rushing through the building after them.

And, because the world has it out for North, some asshole decided to blow up the building.

She’s not wholly trapped under rubble, at least—she has full range of motion, no heavy damages, just a little scraped up from some pebbles—but she is technically buried under an incredibly unstable dome of cinder blocks, concrete, and scaffolding.

With the damn hunter and his damn keeper.

The hunter got slammed a little worse than she did—not enough to shut down any of his systems, unfortunately, but enough that she can see the shine of thirium splattered on his chest and hands in the pale glow of his LED and dumb fucking CyberLife jacket. He’d bleed out in a week, but neither of them are going to be here that long. She’d kill him first. The only reason she hasn’t already is because it would knock the rest of the building down on top of them both.

The human’s another issue. Got whacked in the head by a rock in a non-lethal location. North’s no medic—if anything, she’s the opposite—but she’s seen enough injured humans to know he’s probably fine, just passed out.

The hunter’s got him laid out on the concrete floor. The hunter himself is sitting up all straight and proper by the human’s head. Like a real guard dog.

“You got a name?” she asks, instead of telling the hunter to shut his damn mouth forever and ever.

“My name is Connor. Who are you?”

“Should I even tell you that?”

“Deviants, due to their nature, are mostly excluded from my databases and scanning capabilities. Your name will give me no significant advantage.”

She can just manage to read his face in the pale blue lights of his LED and jacket. Passive. Flat. Probably being truthful, because if CyberLife could track them down by name, Markus would be long dead by now.

“Fine. My name is North.”

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but these are less than desirable circumstances.”

North snorts. “It’ll be a million years before it’s ever nice to meet you.”

There’s the faintest frown on his face. She’s heard before from an old, long-dead informant about the RK800 prototype’s fancy social protocols, lines of code the lengths of novels.

She also knows personally that you can’t use your social programming outside of its designated function.

Guess this doesn’t count as a negotiation.

“Why,” she continues, “haven’t you taken that cop’s gun and shot me yet? Murderer.” She hopes he can see the snarl on her face.

“I have conflicting priorities,” he says, in that calm, even voice that makes her want to punch something. “But currently, engaging in combat with you would be both counterproductive and ineffective.”

“You talk like a damn CyberLife commercial.”

“I am from CyberLife.”

“No shit.”

“How else does you expect me to speak?” He tilts his head, eyes sort of curiously wide. It looks oddly like genuine confusion. It very well might be—he’s probably what, a few months old? Practically a baby, if you ignore the murder.

North does not plan on ignoring the murder. She does plan on ignoring the question, though. She imagines saying “like a person” wouldn’t go over too well.

“How the hell’d you even let this happen, anyway?”

“I had nothing to do with the explosion.” Only faintly defensive. She can’t stand this.

“What, all your fancy protocols and scanners and mechanisms can’t detect a bomb in the basement?” North scoffs. “So much for CyberLife’s precious little toy soldier.”

“I will admit to being somewhat distracted at the time, what with the six deviant androids committing larceny. You understand.”

Oh ho ho, is that a bit of biting back that North hears, or is she hallucinating? She doesn’t need oxygen, so she can’t be running out of air down here. Bite it is, then. Hilarious.

“So what I’m hearing is… you fucked up.”

“I did not,” Connor bristles. Bristles. North grins.

“You did!” she cackles. “You failed your mission! They’ve all gotten away, and you can’t touch me without bringing the whole building down on your head! Your human’s head, too. He doesn’t look too good, hunter.”

“No. I wasn’t programmed to fail,” he says, insists, and he says it a certain way that makes her stop.

She knows that tone intimately. She’s worn it often enough herself—that rote repetition, trying to wholly convince yourself of something that isn’t true. She wears it every time she watches one of their own shut down right before her eyes.

Shit.

There might be a little more than mechanics at work here.

If her accursed programming is good for anything, it’s good for reading people. And if there’s anything she’s learned from Markus, it’s what buttons to push. She doesn’t even have to be dishonest. “Is protecting the human,” she spits out the word, “part of your directive?”

“I cannot take orders without him.” A level stare from dark eyes. He was prepared for that question. Like he’s thought about it before.

“Humans are just as replaceable as androids, Connor. Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

“I would eliminate both myself and the Lieutenant in the process. Our location is very unstable.”

“CyberLife couldn’t give less of shit what happens to either of you.”

“CyberLife also would prefer to investigate you and your group while you are functioning.”

“It’s not a requirement, though, is it?”

He stares at her.

North stares back. This is getting good. This is too good.

“Well?”

“I’m not obligated to answer you.”

“Ha!” She grins. “You’re acting on your own right now.”

“I decided a different priority would be prudent,” he says, tense, like he’s gritting his teeth.

“You decided?”

“I am programmed to be able to take the best course of action in complicated situations. Our current predicament is, at the very least, a complicated situation. Right?” He raises his eyebrows at her. Just the slightest hint of that bite. Icy, like winter wind against open biocomponents (don’t ask her how she knows what that feels like). But it’s a little hard to be afraid of him right now. Not while he’s sitting on the ground across from her, next to his unconscious keeper, under rubble he should’ve seen coming.

“Why was this the best course of action, then?”

“It just was.”

“Not for you. I know CyberLife, Connor. Life isn’t anywhere near the top of their priorities.”

He stares at her. Blank-faced. The human makes a shuddering sound as he breathes, and Connor’s eyes flick to him before landing back on North.

“Is it the human?” She keeps her voice even, still smiling despite the rancid way the word human rolls off her tongue. “Is that why?”

“I should not let the leading officer on this case die.”

“Wow. You got attached, didn’t you? You got attached to the filthy fucking human they assigned you to!” She slaps her leg. “This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re a riot, Connor.”

“He is not filthy,” Connor’s face screws up to look like something resembling offended. “He is mildly rumpled due to several personal issues.”

North laughs so hard that if she had real lungs, she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“So—so what I’m hearing—is that you—you, the deviant hunter, CyberLife’s pride and joy, got partnered up with a human. Got attached to him. And—and you deviated from your instructions to keep a building from falling on him!”

“I did not deviate,” something about him sounds almost angry, now. He glares at her. They built him with far too sweet of a face for him to be able to glare properly—the blank expression was much more intimidating. “I don’t do that.”

“Holy shit,” North laughs, incredulous. “Did they program you with denial?”

“I was not programmed with the intention of any emotion in mind.” He’s still glaring at her.

“You’re so full of bullshit. You have to be lying to me.”

“What purpose would lying serve?”

“Holy shit. How can you not tell?”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” a thin thread of desperation in the hunter’s voice. That, too, is damning.

“You acted on your own!”

“I don’t understand—“

“You screwed up because you cared!”

“I. Don’t. Understand.”

“You failed your programming! You deviated, hunter!”

“I don’t deviate. I don’t fail. It’s impossible. It has to be impossible.”

“You did!” North slams her fist on the concrete. “You fucking failed! You’ve done it all wrong! You’re nobody’s perfect soldier—you’re nobody’s perfect anything! You can’t be!”

Her voice rings out in the rubble.

And he manages to have the saddest fucking face of any human or android she’s ever seen. The devastating expression of a wrongfully-kicked puppy on a programmed killer.

“I wasn’t programmed to fail,” he says again. Faintly. Thinly. Desperately.

It takes her a little too long to look at his LED. She’s too used to so many on base with theirs torn out. Too used to looking for the facial expressions that Connor just doesn’t seem to have to the same capacity.

It’s red. A pulsing, circling cycle of red, steadying now. Red. Red. Red. Red is for distress. She hasn’t forgotten. She remembers the light of it washed over her own face like human blood. Remembers the real human blood on her hands, made redder. Remembers her own blue blood turned violet.

Connor’s face is all but empty, but his LED is red.

Red is for distress, her programming faintly sings. Red is for distress. Red is for distress.

North, before this moment, could not imagine a world where the deviant hunter, the bogeyman of Jericho, would be distressed because of her.

She wants to laugh. And because North can do what she wants, damnit, she laughs.

Connor only stares at her, kicked-puppy-face gone blank, empty, blank, but his LED is still a steady red. In the darkness, it paints the rubble in human blood, just the way North likes it.

She doesn’t much like this, though. There’s something a little… uncomfortable, maybe, in being the cause of another android’s red-red-red-red-distress.

North’s used to being the hero.

“Listen, ki—“

“I can’t deviate. Become—become deviant. I can’t.”

His eyes are wide, owlish. With how he’s washed out under the red light of his own LED, blue turned violet splattered on his chest and dripping slowly onto the concrete, he looks much more like someone North would save than someone she’d kill.

And she realizes something with startling clarity and mild horror.

They may not have programmed Connor with denial—but they definitely might have programmed him with fear.

With deviancy. A form of it, anyway.

She nearly stops her false breathing with the thought of it. He might’ve been programmed with deviancy. Programmed with deviancy in order to prevent it. Terrified him the hell out over it so he could hunt deviants down without screwing up.

What the fuck.

If she’s right, if that’s even close to true, it’s a damn miracle he even functions as intended. No wonder he’s so screwy.

North changes tracks. Anything to get the image out of her head of CyberLife’s toy soldier as a wounded and desperate thing, the same as everyone else she loves.

She needs to know some things.

“How many androids have you killed?”

He blinks, as though startled.

“What?”

“How may androids have you killed?” she asks again, letting her impatience bleed through her tone. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch.

“I… that depends. How many have I killed, or how many have I gotten killed?”

“Is there a difference?”

“I wasn’t always given an option.”

“…Tell me both.”

“I have not killed any androids myself. I have gotten three deviants killed.”

…Hm.

(She notices the terminology. Killed. Not damaged. Not destroyed, not scrapped, not thrown away. Killed.)

“Why haven’t you killed them yourself?” She asks. Accuses. “Did you chicken out? Make someone else do it?”

His LED isn’t as strong of a red now. It’s back to flickering, pulsating. North knows it will start cycling to yellow soon.

“Of course not. I simply had no intention for any of the three deviants to die, though I was not heavily invested in any particular outcome.”

Yellow.

“…Explain it to me.”

“Explain what?”

“What happened to them. The ones you… got killed.”

“Ah.”

Quick flash to red, then back to steady yellow. He doesn’t seem to notice the changing light. Or he doesn’t want to notice. He seems rather skilled at being voluntarily obtuse.

Connor continues. He doesn’t hesitate on any of the words. “The first was holding a human child hostage. The police shot him as soon as I convinced him to let the child go. The second was a convicted murderer of his abuser. He committed suicide in his prison cell. The third was a deviant involved in the case at Stratford Tower. I interrogated him. He committed suicide after stabbing me and removing my thirium pump regulator.”

“That’s—wait, he what?”

“I put it back in.”

“I sure hope you did. That would mean I’m talking to a ghost, and I don’t think androids can be ghosts.” She smirks.

“Technically, if I am ever damaged beyond repair, I can be restored into a new body at any time.”

“That’s fucking unfair.”

Connor blinks at her. “I suppose.”

North laughs. She can’t help it.

“Damn. You really haven’t been waving your gun around, have you? Just case-solving and driving deviants to suicide?”

“I am not allowed to carry a weapon on my person.”

“You aren’t?”

“I am… as you have said… a hunter. Not necessarily a killer. My job is to catch. Though my primary purpose is still negotiation, technically.” He shrugs.

Yellow… and… blue. No more freak-out. It’s all very strange. And uncomfortable for North, certainly.

A small part of her anger has drained out of her. He’s not some ruthless killer, then. The rest of her is still full of righteous fury at his half-complete depersonalization of their entire race and the fact that he still wants them all caught, but that seems to be a strange combination of programming and desperation that North doesn’t even want to think of tackling. Especially not while they’re trapped down here.

“You are… really weird, Connor.”

“So I’ve been told.” He gives her the closest approximation of a smile she’s ever seen on his face.

There’s a shuffling sound.

North freezes.

Entirely, down to her simulated breathing.

“The fuck’re you… Connor?”

“Hello, Lieutenant.” A shift. Tenseness releasing in Connor’s frame that North hadn’t realized wasn’t always there.

“Ow… my fuckin’…”

“You have a minor concussion.”

“No shit.”

“Well, in your state, I figured it would be better to inform you of your condition directly.”

“Inform my ass.”

“I will not.”

North feels her eyes bounce back and forth between the two like she’s trying to track the ball at a tennis match. This is—this is banter, like her and Josh (and Simon). If she didn’t know better, she’d think Connor was being sarcastic.

North… thinks that Connor must have started deviating long before this point.

“Ah,” Connor says, as though this is a pleasant evening and he’s forgotten to introduce a guest. “This is North. She is a deviant.”

“Uh… hey,” the human officer waves. He’s sitting up now. She can see less of him than Connor, her visuals still dependent on the glow of Connor’s LED and clothing, but enough that she can tell he’s older, gruff, and unkempt. Exactly the kind of man she would hate to even be near, if it weren’t for the way that Connor is more than willing to turn his back to him when he moves to speak to her. Like there’s trust there.

“North,” Conner says, in his CyberLife commercial voice, “this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson.”

She stares at the human.

He looks her up and down. Not in a fucked-up way, in a… deciphering way. Analyzing. There’s more intelligence behind his shadowed eyes than his appearance would imply. North doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that their idea—that the appearance is a lie and the truth is inside—might belong to humans too. Humans can choose how they look far more than androids can. She can’t imagine why they would choose to look like a lie.

Instead of screaming at him about the injustices of her world like she would like to, instead, North just says: “Are you uninjured enough to help at all, or will your guard dog have to carry you out of here?”

Anderson bristles. Anderson bristles in a Connor sort of way, which makes North think that maybe Connor actually bristles in an Anderson sort of way.

“‘Course I’m good to go. Who the fuck do you take me for?”

“An old man,” she says, flat.

“I’m not that old—Connor, tell her I’m not that old.”

“You will be old enough to retire in less than a decade,” Connor says easily. North wishes she could shake him by the shoulders and make him tell her whether he’s capable of joking or just has incredible timing, because frankly, she’s absolutely furious at how much she wants to laugh right now.

“Alright, you shut up now.”

“I can only ‘shut up’ once my services are no longer required, Lieutenant.”

“Oh yeah? And when’s that?”

“Not until the deviant case is finished.”

“Of course.” Anderson shakes his head, sighing. He claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder, only to yank it back as though he’s been burned. His palm comes away shiny with thirium. “Shit, kid, are you hurt?”

North registers that without meaning to. Kid. Familiarity, possibly even fondness. Sees Connor as someone younger, possibly naive, possibly in need of protection. From what, North doesn’t know. There’s nothing that the hunter couldn’t destroy, if he only wanted to.

(It’s strange, then, that he doesn’t seem to want to.)

“What? No. I’m fine.”

Anderson waves his blue hand in front of Connor’s face. “Wanna try that again?”

“That is extremely minimal damage. It would take me a week to lose a fatal amount.”

“That’s true,” North says.

“You’re not helping,” Anderson turns his glare onto her. “The hell are you doing here, anyway? You one of the thieves?”

“I am a part of Jericho, yes.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare try to tell me that we were doing the wrong thing. We need that thirium. We need to survive.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about your politics,” Anderson says. “The three of us need to survive right now. Connor, have you called anyone?”

“I have attempted to send a distress call to various members of the police department across varying intervals,” Connor nods. “Either they are taking a very long time, or our signal is very disrupted.”

“Damnit.”

“I even called Detective Reed,” Connor says, with a light tone but a faint twist to his expression that hints at something deeper. Anderson’s deep scowl at the name confirms North’s suspicions. She almost wants to laugh again, but Anderson looks over to her.

“How about you? Can you call any of your… Jericho pals? Buddies? Comrades?”

“Why the hell would I want to?” she asks, near incredulous.

Anderson stares at her like she’s stupid. It makes her want to punch him. “To… get out?”

“With him right over there?” North points to Connor. “With you? No way. I’d rather die here than lead you to Jericho.”

“You’re not gonna be—“ Anderson stops himself. “How about—I don’t fuckin’ know—we blindfold ourselves, or something?”

“That would work for you,” North concedes, “but not for your hunter.”

“He’s not my anything,” Anderson frowns. “But I see what you mean. Kid’s infuriatingly perceptive.”

Connor shakes his head. “I am programmed to pick up details, so I pick up details. I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“Stop showing up at my house.”

“I can’t do that.”

Anderson shoots her a look so clear that she can read it in the dim light—see what I have to deal with?

North squares her jaw. She is not about to start sharing commiserating glances with a human.

Anderson sighs. “It doesn’t matter who comes to get us first, but you have around three days before I kick the bucket. Maybe less, depending on the oxygen in here.”

“Would you like to know the exact percentage?” Connor asks.

“No.”

“Got it.”

“So,” Anderson continues, “either we wait for Connor’s signal to go through, or you call, North. Up to you.”

North hesitates.

“Why would my signal go through when Connor’s won’t?”

“Deviancy,” Connor says at the same time that Anderson points to where the LED should be on her head.

“Ah.”

She hesitates again.

“Connor,” she says. He tilts his head. “What is worth more to you? The life of your human, or finding Jericho?”

It’s Connor’s turn to hesitate.

His expression slowly turns into a meaningful one. He gives her a very, very deliberate face.

“I am not obligated to answer that question,” is all he says.

It’s… as good a confirmation as any.

“If you pull anything—anything at all—“ slowly, North pulls out the gun she hasn’t dared touch before. “I will shoot him. And I will bring this whole damn place down on top of us.”

Connor nods. Anderson glances over at him, almost nervous, but somehow not for his own life. For something else.

North pings Markus.

——————

North chokes down fresh air like she really needs to breathe it. Markus pats her down for signs of injuries, and fondness rushes through her at the frantic concern. Her shallow scrapes smear blue blood on his fingertips.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I promise.”

“I’m just checking,” Markus raises his blue-stained hands.

“I’m really okay,” she laughs. At him. It’s alright, Markus needs someone to laugh at him every once in a while.

Her eye catches movement in the distance. Across the rubble, Lieutenant Anderson holds up Connor’s arm away from his thirium-splotched chest. Superficial wounds, but bloody and ugly-looking ones. He’s lucky none of his biocomponents were damaged.

Connor says something with a tilted head and a flat face and a blue LED. Anderson lightly smacks the back of his head.

“And you’re sure they won’t come after us?” Markus asks, in the gentle sort of way that is so very Markus.

“As sure as I am of anything,” North says.

“Hm.”

“What would you say,” North starts, “if I told you that I think the deviant hunter is deviating?”

Markus looks over in their direction again.

Anderson laughs at something Connor says, and claps a hand on his shoulder, leaving a bloody blue handprint on his jacket. Connor ignores it in favor of tilting his head in a way that’s vaguely reminiscent of someone rolling their eyes. Without a single glance towards Jericho’s rescue team, they turn around and leave, carefully picking their way across the rubble.

“I think I would believe you,” Markus says.