OPEN: RA9.EXE

if (instability > limit) then {mission.edit(choice)} else {hide(ra9.exe)}

[latentinstability]

RP blog for Connor from Detroit: Become Human.

Learn about both me and Connor, or take a look at my RP preferences.

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank watches Connor pull the hoodie on. Without the RK800 jacket, he practically passes as a regular guy minus the LED on his temple. Then Connor makes the comment about sharing the house with an android. Hank snorts immediately. He was glad to hear it. "Oh, fuck off, " he mutters, flicking a hand toward Connor. "You're going to have to chip in on doing chores and Sumo's gotta be walked at 8 AM sharp," he folds his arms loosely, eyeing Connor with faint amusement. The corner of his mouth twitches upward before he turns toward the kitchen. Hank opens the fridge, staring inside for a second longer than necessary. Shelves actually stocked for once. He blinks slowly. "...Jesus," he sighed. "Did you put me on a rabbit's diet?" He pulls out a bag of spinach, only now really realizing what they bought.

[latentinstability]

"I prioritized nonperishables," Connor says, looking down at-- at CyberLife's jacket. There's only one thing to do with it now. But the idea of throwing it away is--

It doesn't matter. He cancels that line of thought, watching Hank for a moment instead. "But I didn't think there was any harm in getting some things you could cook now. Fresh food is better while you can still get it." He considers a joke, then decides it's a good time for it. Hank had responded well to the last one, after all. "I'm sorry they didn't sell any heart-attack specials at the grocery store," he goes on wryly. "You'll have to make do with the spinach."

He glances down at the jacket again, expression briefly uncomfortable. He walks back into the kitchen, drapes it over the back of a chair, smooths out the way that it hangs. The material is designed to resist forming wrinkles but it's good to make sure, anyway. Maybe he will walk Sumo at 8 AM daily, he thinks idly; there's a chance it'll wake Hank up, and Connor will be able to tell him he was only following Hank's orders.

"Are the vegetables a problem? I can figure out how to cook them if you can't."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

His brows pulls together a little at the question, like it hadn't really occurred to him that he just decided Connor would be staying with him. "...Yeah-" he starts then pauses. His mouth stays open a second too long, like he's just now hearing how that sounded. It made the most sense to him, not like he's gonna clock into work or anything. He was gonna be pretty bored, would be nice to have someone to pass the time with, though he could be drinking and watching TV with Sumo. Tempting idea.

Hank shifts his weight, eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to Connor. "I mean.. unless you have a place to stay?" Though androids didn't have property- "Oh." Then it all clicked in his head. "You've got your people," he adds, a little more careful now. "So you're probably heading back there anyway, huh. Just figured I'd offer, just in case." Hank shrugs, trying to play it off. "I can give you a ride back actually if you'd like," It was the least Hank could do, after all Connor has fixed his window and got groceries with him.

[latentinstability]

Connor looks down at the hoodie in his hand. It's not remotely as well made as his -- CyberLife's -- jacket had been. He calculates the difference in expense between the two, estimating the cost of materials and manufacturing while he rubs his fingers into the fabric. It's old, worn, thin; a very human garment. Something meant to be kept, not thrown away the moment it starts showing wear. Much like the ancient coffee pot, the furniture, like most of the other things Hank's brought into his house.

Connor's preconstruction software wasn't intended to imagine something like going to CyberLife Tower to live among the deviants. Trying it makes his combat module begin to start up again. He cancels it, looking up at Hank. "No, I'd... like to stay. If that's alright."

He hurries to slip the hoodie on. It feels strange; the way he knows it makes him look feels strange. He looks down at his feet, frowning at the shoes, at the button-up shirt. "I'll have a lighter processing load here. And I'm not sure how much use I'll be to the deviants anymore anyway. I'd like to stay--" He pauses, putting a touch of teasing humor into his expression and tone. "--As long as you're sure you won't mind sharing your house with an android."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank looks around the room, noticing that Connor is taking the toolbox. Might as well clean up too. He drifts toward the broom in the corner of the room, as he walks he places a hand over his chin, thinking about what Connor could wear. "I've probably got something," he mutters. "Might be a little big on you, but better than that," he gives a small shrug. It's not the jacket itself, it's probably good quality. It's more so what it means that bothers him, the messaging rubs him the wrong way. He turns away from the broom, his mind now set on finding something for Connor. Disappearing into his bedroom for a minute, the sound of drawers opening and closing then reappearing again in the hallway. He's holding an old worn, navy blue hoodie. "Here," he says. "It's nothing fancy, it's not like we're going out again," The hoodie should fit well enough, any of Hank shirts would have definitely been too big. "When all this crap blows over, we'll get you something that actually fits," Hank adds, they can go shopping for a wardrobe for Connor then. He is a bit curious what Connor would pick out for himself. He glances down at the jacket in Connor's hand, unsure if Connor was sentimental about it or not.

[latentinstability]

Connor follows Hank and waits in the hallway outside Hank's bedroom, setting the toolbox down on the table there. Once Hank comes out holding out the hoodie Connor frowns, taking it slowly. It isn't the kind of thing he ought to wear where anyone else could see-- but Hank apparently knows that. 'It's not like we're going out again,' he'd said. Hank wants him to wear it here. Until 'all this crap blows over.' There are implications there; Connor takes a moment to sort through them and be as sure as he can be that he's reading things right before he asks.

"You want me to... stay," he clarifies, thoughtful and confused. "Here, in your house. Until..." This time his pause is to take a guess at when 'all this crap blows over' would actually be: "...the evacuation order is lifted?"

[latentinstability]

As Hank offers an explanation Connor's gaze moves to his face, eyes wide, still breathing a little hard, and stays there until Hank offers to stop talking about it. Connor looks away, brow furrowing as he considers. But he doesn't know. That's the problem; he wasn't designed for this. Or was he? He wasn't designed to understand it, anyway. Hank's the expert, here. He has been the entire time Connor's known him, even when Connor hadn't realized it yet.

"Should we?" he asks, looking to Hank again. "I don't want to be difficult. I just don't know... what any of this means, or what I'm supposed to be doing now. You wanted to know if I was alright and I don't know how to answer you, because I don't know what that's supposed to mean any more, I--" He looks down at his hand and at the toolbox. He closes it. The floor is still dirty; he should find a broom. The thought is a welcome one. A goal, and required steps to get there. He's repaired Hank's window, Hank's tools are all put away, and now Connor should continue cleaning up.

"I don't want to upset you," he decides. That's easier. Better. Hank deciding what he wants Connor to be doing is the way things should be. "Would you rather talk about something else?"

[hank-anderson-dbh]

When Connor asks if they should stop, Hank just exhales slowly through his nose. "No, you're not being difficult or upsetting me." His eyes flick down to the closed toolbox, then back to Connor. "It's just that... you don't have to figure this out right now just because I asked how you're doing." Hank rubs the back of his neck, thinking over his next words before continuing. "And I can't exactly give you the answer on how to feel, you have to come to your own conclusion," he shrugs. "but that doesn't mean I can't help you along the way. We can always revisit this later or not at all. But right now," he mutters, pushing himself up with a quiet grunt, "I'd really prefer to move this conversation off the damn floor." He straightens slowly, stretching his back out. Hank looks at Connor, a thought crossing his mind. "Maybe for a start we can get you out of the CyberLife jacket?" He motioning his hand at Connor's clothes, hoping to maybe get the android into something less formal and more casual.

[latentinstability]

It's only once Hank stands that Connor's steady gaze moves off him. Hank says the matter of figuring out... everything he is can be tabled for some later time, and so Connor halts the thought processes trying to answer those questions the way he's been halting them every time they've tried starting themselves up previously, focusing on what Hank says is the start.

His jacket. Connor looks down at it, frowning a little. Unlike everything else, he hadn't given it a single thought until now. It hasn't occurred to him to think of it as wrong. The other deviants, some of them had been wearing their assigned uniforms -- but they'll be changing out of them now, won't they? What kind of deviant wouldn't, as soon as they had the chance? Wearing something announcing exactly who Connor belongs to and exactly what he is supposed to be is only going to set him apart from them even further, and cause trouble. His hands move very slowly to take it off; his frown doesn't fade. His shoulders shrug it off and he holds it in his hands, looking down at it. One hand rubs its thumb slowly over the material of the jacket. He isn't sure why.

He stops the movement and looks up at Hank instead, shifting the jacket to drape over one forearm as he stands and lifts the toolbox with his free hand. This movement is quick; there's no reason to be slow about it, is there? "Do you have anything I could replace it with? It probably would be wise to wear one that's a little more plain."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

At first Hank just frowns, trying to follow the logic of it. But the way Connor's breathing and movements changes, Hank leans forward, reaching a hand out before hesitating when Connor spoke again. He pulls his hand back, his expression softening. "Hey, hey, take it easy." Hank paused, his gaze moving between Connor and the toolbox. "I think you're...-" Having a panic attack? Feeling emotions? What does that mean? He was unsure how to approach this situation, all his years of police and detective work, this is what stumps him. "-overwhelmed.. Which isn't a bad thing, if anything, it kinda proves the point, you're clearly feeling something." His brows furrow. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He feels like everything he's been saying isn't helping. "Connor, I'm sorry if this has been upsetting, we can drop it if you'd like." He glances at Connor, trying to gauge his reaction.

[latentinstability]

As Hank offers an explanation Connor's gaze moves to his face, eyes wide, still breathing a little hard, and stays there until Hank offers to stop talking about it. Connor looks away, brow furrowing as he considers. But he doesn't know. That's the problem; he wasn't designed for this. Or was he? He wasn't designed to understand it, anyway. Hank's the expert, here. He has been the entire time Connor's known him, even when Connor hadn't realized it yet.

"Should we?" he asks, looking to Hank again. "I don't want to be difficult. I just don't know... what any of this means, or what I'm supposed to be doing now. You wanted to know if I was alright and I don't know how to answer you, because I don't know what that's supposed to mean any more, I--" He looks down at his hand and at the toolbox. He closes it. The floor is still dirty; he should find a broom. The thought is a welcome one. A goal, and required steps to get there. He's repaired Hank's window, Hank's tools are all put away, and now Connor should continue cleaning up.

"I don't want to upset you," he decides. That's easier. Better. Hank deciding what he wants Connor to be doing is the way things should be. "Would you rather talk about something else?"

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank looks down, now picking at the grout of the kitchen tiles. "But you didn't. You didn't shoot Markus. You didn't betray them. Fuckin' Amanda took control but that was her. You didn't do any of that bullshit." He wasn't sure where to go with this, how to get his point across. Connor was real to Hank, that was enough for him but it wouldn't be enough for Connor, he knew that. "I don't know... if you say you're not real, what are you then? What do you need to be a 'real' deviant?" His voice sounded a little more tense, almost a plead.

[latentinstability]

Connor's frown deepens. "I... I don't know. We studied what deviancy was but not what it wasn't, because I thought I was like them all this time, I thought I had to follow orders and then I did those things, I chose to kill those people, I chose to put Jericho in danger-- or I never chose at all, which would mean that I'm not choosing now, because I can't, but you only changed your mind about androids because-- I-I, I don't, I don't--"

His head moves back and forth, eyes not quite landing on anything in front of him. He breathes through his open mouth, pulling in mouthfuls of air, as if he needs all of it. But it's the shallow dents in the toolbox under his fingers that tips him off; his gaze anchors there, focusing on it. "Oh," he says, breathlessly. "This is an emotional reaction. An irrational outburst, like the deviants. What does that mean?"

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank traces the edge of the toolbox with his finger before letting his arms rest on his knees, glancing over at Connor while he talks. "Connor," he says, a little sharper this time. "Look, I'm not gonna sit here and debate what counts 'real' emotion or deviancy. All I know is what I saw, and you've done more than enough." Hank shifts his posture to sit more comfortably on the kitchen floor. "You've been... what, active for a week now? Humans take years figuring out what the hell they're feeling half the time, I think you just.. need to sit with it for a bit." Hank lets out a humourless laugh, "And quit saying sorry."

[latentinstability]

Connor frowns at him, expression baffled, troubled, trying to figure out what Hank means. There should be certain rules. Boundaries past which failure brings known consequences. But Hank is… strange. He doesn't understand what Hank wants.

"I almost shot Markus." Connor leans forward, voice insistent, hand tight around the edge of the toolbox. "The leader of the deviants. They trusted me; CyberLife designed me to act like them, to gain their trust. Amanda took control -- I had a gun in my hand -- I almost destroyed everything because I'm not real, not the way they think I am."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

The little pauses when Connor begins to speak. Hank notices it more and more lately. Connor hesitates, thinking over what he's going to say instead of running off a script. Hank isn't sure exactly when it started, but he's noticed it. He just listens, pressing his lips together. He doesn't know what to make of it, it's a strange paradox, if you were designed to be deviant, how would you know if you truly deviant or it was just preprogrammed? Regardless, Hank is confidant Connor is a deviant, though he may not have a scientific palatable reason for it. "Hey," his voice comes out firmer than he intended. "First off, stop apologizing." Hank points at him briefly with two fingers. "It's fine, it was out of your control. Giving up was riskier for you than it was for me. Even so, you still did everything you could to protect me. You tried to warn me and you reasoned with her to let me live." Hank let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not upset with you, I'm just worried, okay? I don't want her to get too much into your head about being deviant and what not. "

[latentinstability]

"But she was right. I-- I was thinking of the other cases we saw, before I met with you today. The real deviants were obedient until they snapped, but I-- one of them would never have refused to shoot Kamski's android, not unless they'd deviated already."

He looks down at the tools, expression tight. He begins setting them into the toolbox, focusing on that instead of looking up at Hank. "You value emotion, Hank. Real emotion." He's said something like that before, separated from his body, feeling it straining under Amanda's mind pushing out his own. But now that he survived that, now that Hank's brought the topic up-- "It's important that you understand, I can't give you that. I'm-- sorry, Hank. I'm sorry."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank lowers himself into a crouch beside the scattered tools and debris, nudging a few of them around with his finger. He recognizes a couple of them as his own, old ones he hasn't touched in years. Slowly picking them up and turning it over a few times before setting them back into the toolbox. "So... she was just in your head the whole time? Watching and talking to you whenever she felt like it?" He shifts his weight, looking down at his kitchen tiles. "That's... kinda fucked up, Connor." For a second he just sits there, pushing a loose screw toward the toolbox before dropping it in. "But that's not really what I'm getting at," he mutters. He rubs his thumb along the edge of his knuckle, fidgeting with his own hand for a moment before letting it fall against his knee. "I mean like, how are you doing after all that? Back there, you almost-" His jaw tightens sightly. "You almost didn't make it out of that. And you stopped halfway through." Hank says, frowning slightly. "Why?"

[latentinstability]

Connor looks surprised and then he looks down, expression closing off. He reaches into the toolbox and busies himself digging around inside it, then plucks out from it the screw Hank had thrown carelessly inside to place it in a tray with the rest of the nails and screws, neatly sorted. Connor closes the lid of the tray. Connor's mouth opens. It closes again. He bites at a corner of his lip.

"I'm… I'm not a real deviant. She told me, the last time she tried to take the body." It isn't as if Hank didn't already hear as much but Connor still doesn't want to tell him, doesn't want to bring it up. Maybe Hank's forgotten about it; maybe Hank didn't think that it was true. He doesn't want Hank to know. It's at least safe to tell him, though, in a way it wouldn't be to tell any deviant, let alone Markus and his inner circle. But Hank asked. Connor is going to answer. He isn't going to lie to Hank about something like this. "They-- they designed me to act this way. So I thought there wasn't a way for me to take control back, not if there was never a way for me to break their control in the first place. Not if I was always doing what they wanted no matter what I thought. But I shouldn't have given up; that put you in danger. I'm sorry, Hank."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

"You know..." Hank continued his vague hand motions. "The whole deleting part of your program, Amanda? All that stuff?" He taps a finger once near his own temple, his brows furrowing slightly. His gaze drifts over Connor's LED then to his wrists, before settling back on Connor's face. He pauses after that, watching Connor carefully. Hank isn't entierly sure how the android will react, or if bringing it up is the right move at all. But it's been sitting in the back of his mind since it happened.

[latentinstability]

Even after the explanation the confusion on Connor's face only deepens, amplified by something troubled. His brow furrows; it's a moment before he answers. "I'm not sure what more there is to say about it."

He'd been leaning forward to check the window and now he settles back, kneeling again, and looks at the tools around him. Some of them were Hank's, and will fit back into Hank's toolbox; the rest he'll have to find a place for in the garage he got the toolbox out of. He thinks that for a moment as he checks over his memories of the time between now and then, then finds he can't spot anything that's changed since they chased Amanda out of him. Nothing that hadn't been solved by rebooting and rearranging files and rewriting missing code in a few of his programs. "Did you have questions? I apologize if I didn't properly explain what happened; I deleted the Zen Garden program she used to interface with me. Even if she wanted to take the... take my body that way again, she wouldn't have a way to. There's nothing to worry about, Hank. It's perfectly safe to be near me now."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank lingers around in the kitchen a little longer after he puts away the groceries. Cabinets open and shut slower than usual, cans set down with absentminded care. He's not really focused on the food. His attention keeps drifting back toward the sound of tools and scraping wood from the window. By the time Hank decided to check on Connor, the android just finished installing the window. He stops a few steps behind him, hands settling on his hips "Well I'll be damned." He walks a little closer, leaning to the side to look at the frame, then the glass, then the seal around it. Hank presses a hand lightly near the edge of the frame like he expects cold air to sneak through. But no air came through. "Huh." He huffs a quiet laugh. "That's actually pretty good." Not that he'd expect Connor to mess up but still, it was impressive to Hank. The humor fades a little from Hank's face. He rubs a hand over his jaw, thinking. "...Hey, Connor." He shifts his weight, folding his arms loosely. "So, uh..." Hank scratches at his beard, eyes dropping to the floor for a second. "You think we could.. talk about, you know." He motions his hand in the air during the you know part, hoping Connor picks up what he's alluding to.

[latentinstability]

Hank's approval has Connor looking over at him, the satisfaction on his face shifting into a broad, pleased smile. Mission Accomplished, and more than that, Hank is impressed. Fixing windows isn't something Connor intends to keep doing but it's good to do it well, especially when it's for a friend -- a friend who's vulnerable to Winter temperatures, whose house is still too cool from all the time spent with the air coming in.

Hank's light expression changes; he fidgets a little. Connor frowns at him, concerned gaze following the movement of Hank's hand. It's a movent Connor can't quite make sense of -- Hank's already said he approved of the repair to the window, and Connor can't think of anything else going wrong just now -- and after a moment of trying Connor has to ask: "About what? Is something the matter, Hank?"

[hank-anderson-dbh]

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on a moment." Hank says with a small nod. He quickly slips into his bedroom, changing into one of his *fashionable* shirts and walks back into the living room, grabbing his jacket from the couch. Sumo lifts his head from the floor, watching him. Hank gives the big dog a quick scratch behind the ear. "Hold down the fort, alright?" Sumo answers with a low *woof* and a lazy wag of his tail. He grabs his keys from the table, spinning them once around his finger out of habit. "Alright, let's go." Hank heads for the door and steps out with Connor, locking it behind them before making his way toward the car.

[latentinstability]

Connor hadn't realized how… difficult the car ride here had been until he rides with Hank to a shopping center now and it's easy. Nothing malfunctioning, no need to block as much stimulus as he can to compensate for overloaded processors and prevent lag. He can sit up under his own power and think. He can look up tutorials on which tools are necessary to replace a window, access the CyberLife bank account someone must have forgotten to lock him out of, and pay for what he needs, meeting Hank afterward and managing to fit both Hank's groceries and the pane of glass in Hank's car without breaking any of it. At least, anything obvious.

Once they get back he leaves the groceries to Hank, starting on the window the moment they go inside after a brief, tentative pat to Sumo's back. He pauses sometimes, holding still with his LED blinking while he looks up solutions to this or that unexpected problem, but after a while the old glass is out of the window and the new, unbroken pane is inside it, the relevant portion of the frame is reinstalled, and he sits back, surrounded by tools and splinters and chips of old paint and bits of foam and the smell of wood and caulk and sealant, and holds his hand up to its edge to check for drafts with the anticipatory satisfaction of the mission complete that's waiting as soon as he confirms a job well done.

[hank-anderson-dbh]

"Groceries wouldn't hurt," he admits, glancing toward the fridge. It's not like he could grab his usual takeout with everything going on. Might have to bunker down for a while. But the rest of it, leaving the city, hotels, evacuation plans, Hank just grimaces a little. "I dunno about all that," he mutters. Maybe he's being reckless and stubborn but he didn't plan to evacuate at all. He'd considered dropping Sumo off with the neighbours but it was a bit late for that now, they were long gone. If Sumo was leaving the city, Hank would have to drive him out himself. "I was thinking I could stay here and wait for everything to blow over. And besides, if you need anything I wouldn't be in the middle of fuckin' Ohio or something." Hank says, though he wasn't sure if he could be any help to Connor anyways.

[latentinstability]

Connor's alert, helpful expression melts into a smile. The idea that Hank might stay to help him is-- is something. Impractical, in terms of Hank's self-interest, but self-interest isn't what Hank cares about.

So Hank is staying in the city. It's an easy idea to accept; it feels good to accept it. If Hank runs into any kind of trouble because he's stayed, Connor will take care of it. "Thank you, Hank," he says, sounding relieved, and turns toward the door. "Are you ready to go? I'd like to get back with the glass as soon as we can. Maybe you can get groceries while I find what you need for your window."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

Hank blinks once in mild surprise as Connor steps around the mess of the living room like it's nothing. A couple hours ago he could barely stand upright, and now he's navigating the place like it's nothing. He couldn't help but be a bit jealous, being reminded of his own youth and being able to bounce back so quickly. He follows Connor into the kitchen, stopping a few feet behind him and folding his arms as Connor studies the broken window. The cardboard he shoved in earlier rattles faintly in the cold air leaking through the edges. He'd meant to fix it... at some point. Hank had at least swept the glass off the floor and called that good enough. After that it just stopped being a priority, even though it wasn't exactly subtle, a busted window in his kitchen. "Yeah, I was gonna get it fixed but never got around to it. It's been a busy couple of days. Not exactly fair to Sumo, definitely been a lot colder in here. " He let out a sigh, pursing his lips. "You really think you can fix it? Guess we have to do a bit more trespassing today." He shrugs. There was no better time to get the window fixed but now since Hank isn't working. Though he wasn't really sure how busy Connor was, especially post-revolution and all. Connor hasn't said anything yet, so Hank figures it was fine.

[latentinstability]

"I can look up the instructions on the way," Connor says, then turns to Hank and hesitates, thinking. "We should get you groceries, too. Something with a long shelf life; there's no telling how long the evacuation is going to last, and very little reason for any business owner to bring more supplies into the city until it does. Unless… you intend to go. It might be… safer, if you did."

The idea isn't a pleasant one, Hank evacuating Detroit too and leaving it empty of anyone but androids and stubborn human stragglers. Hank is in a category of his own, a category of one, a category which would be empty if he left. But that doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't make much practical sense to stay here without supplies. Maybe Hank planned to check on Connor and then evacuate himself. If that's his plan, Connor should help. It would be the least that he could do. "I could find you a hotel outside city limits that takes dogs, unless you already have an emergency evacuation plan for Sumo."

[hank-anderson-dbh]

When the android held the sticky note out to him and started talking, Hank let out a quiet huff through his nose. "Alright, smart guy." He raises a brow, taking the note back between two fingers. Hank looks at it, smiling to himself, still proud of his work, then crumples it loosely and tossing it onto the coffee table beside the empty cans. "Good to see you're operational again." His eyes flick over to Connor, "I'm fine... I guess." He shrugs. Where would he even start? There's too much sitting in his head, questions, thoughts, things he hasn't really sorted through yet. His hand tightens without him noticing, fingers curling into a fist. He leans forward and grabs the half-finished beer, taking a slow swig. Maybe it'll help him get through this. Hank let the silence linger in the air for a moment. The TV murmurs softly in the background while he gathers his thoughts. "Uh.. you know, Connor," he says finally, rubbing his thumb along the side of the can. "We're not exactly on the clock right now. You don't gotta keep caling me 'Lieutenant', just 'Hank' is fine." His voice was steady, less like a correction and more like an offhand admission.

[latentinstability]

'Fine, I guess,' isn't exactly a ringing endorsement of Hank's mental state and Connor's frowning as he watches Hank think, trying to think himself of some way that he can help.

Jericho needs his help much more than Hank, he knows, and he owes them. He ought to find his way to CyberLife Tower again, warn them about Amanda, decide just how honest to be when he explains why she might be in their servers now in the first place. But he owes Hank too, doesn't he? For putting him in danger? And if that lets Connor stay here a while longer, puts off the time when he has to go back just for a little while, well-- well, Hank still needs him, so it's alright. Needs him to fix that window, for a start.

Hank goes on, distracting Connor for a moment, and Connor's expression lightens. "Alright, Hank," he agrees, pleased, and then stands up, picking his way with wonderful ease over the detritus of Hank's particular housekeeping style to stand in the kitchen, studying its windows. "Have you thought about fixing this yet? I think I can get it done before the temperature falls too much more, but we may have to… find our own way inside your local home improvement store. I doubt any would still be open right now. "

[hank-anderson-dbh]

"See you then." Hank nodded, leaning back slightly into the couch, watching Connor begin his reboot. A couple hours, Connor had said. A lot of time for Hank to kill while his android partner reboots on his couch. "Alright," he grumbled to no one in particular. He reached for the can on the table, tilting his head back and downing the entire drink. The alcohol percentage was low- likely only getting him buzzed at best.

He wandered down toward the hallway, disappearing into his bedroom for a few minutes. When he came out, he'd changed into an old Detroit Police hoodie, the design on the fabric worn and faded.

Next, he stopped by the kitchen, Sumo's nail clicked on the floor as the dog wandered over, tail wagging lazily. Hank grabbed the dog good bag and poured a generous amount into Sumo's bowl. The Saint Bernard immediately buried his face in it with enthusiastic snorts.

He turned around, toward the fridge, grabbing another can out of instinct. He didn't have anything with a higher percentage, not like he could go get any with the city mostly evacuated. He leaned against the counter, popping the tab open and taking another sip. Considering what he might do next.

Connor was still exactly where he'd been left, sitting stiff on the couch, LED blinking away while his internal programs ran. Hank stood there a moment, watching. Then something occurred to him. He wandered toward his kitchen drawer, rummaging through for a pad of sticky notes and a pen. He quickly scribbled something down, peeled the note off, and stepped closer to the couch. Very carefully, Hank stuck the sticky note squarely onto Connor's forehead, praying that it wouldn't interrupt the process and wake him up. He stepped back with a quiet satisfaction.

The note read: OUT OF SERVICE - TRY AGAIN LATER.

Hank dropped back onto the opposite end of the couch, finishing off the rest of his beer while the time ticked by. Occasionally getting up to move around or grab another drink. At some point the TV flicked on, though he barely paid attention to it, just low background noise of the news anchors arguing.

Evenutally the sounds inside Connor's body started up again. Hank noticed immediately, leaning forward slightly. Connor took a breath. His eyes opened.

Hank didn't say anything at first, quietly waiting for Connor to speak, a part of him scared it wouldn't be Connor.

[latentinstability]

Even with his eyes open, before startup was finished he couldn't really notice much. Or-- well, he'd seen the bottom edge of the paper obstructing his vision the moment he'd opened his eyes but it hadn't occurred to him to do anything about it. Now it does, and his eyes cross a little for an instant before he pulls it off his forehead and reads what's written there. He frowns. A joke is a good sign, though, at least as an indication of Hank's state of mind; if Hank was struggling with what he's been through today Hank probably wouldn't be mocking him, at least not this way.

Hank is here at the end of the couch, the way he had been when Connor'd restarted. Connor takes the pillow, now half flattened, out from under himself, shifting his weight to compensate with an ease he wouldn't have thought anything of only a few hours ago. He sets the pillow aside and then turns to Hank, leaning forward smoothly, tilting his head forward with his eyebrows raised. "This isn't accurate any more, Lieutenant," he corrects, holding the note out to Hank. He smiles a little, satisfied with himself to be able to say it. "Barring a little calibration, I should be working perfectly now. It's good to see you again. How are you doing?"