Lessie Benningfield Randle, 106, can still remember a house engulfed in flames and bodies stacked in truckbeds - horrors that 100 years late
100 years ago, the state and its police deputized a white mob to destroy and kill as much as possible in a Black community, Tulsa, Oklahoma, because of an unproven accusation of a Black man assaulting a white women. White settlers killed over 300 Black people, destroyed 1000s of their homes and businesses, and looted even more.
Words: 2100
POV: Hank
A short piece exploring the events leading up to and just post-epilogue (good ending). Fluff/feels. This can be interpreted however you like. (You can also read on AO3)
...something about the bright blue thirium against the snow—hell, it fucking glowed in the dark…. He’d barely driven two blocks before he had to swerve to a curb and open his door to puke.
“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”
Hank really looks at the android now, and is pained to see the bullet hole, the blue blood now dried along his shoulder, spattered like neon paint along the front and sides of his usually neat jacket. Connor is filthy, his hair is a mess, his clothes are frayed and torn in places. It’s a miracle he’s alive.
Alive...
Connor follows Hank into the kitchen, and his eyes quickly scan the counters, table—likely analyzing what’s changed since he was last here. Hank looks at him, slightly abashed. The last time Connor was here, he wasn't exactly concerned about the state of his house. He'd barely been aware that Connor was even in his house, let alone been concerned about how he'd gotten in (the window was still broken, and Connor's request to Cyberlife to reimburse the expense would likely never be processed now).
"Do you eat?" Hank asks. It sounds stupid as he asks it, but it feels good to ask regardless. And honestly HANK is hungry. But even without opening the fridge, he realizes he has next to nothing edible, except perhaps to android standards. With all his favorite fast food places almost certainly closed, he isn't sure what he’ll do.
"I can eat, but I have no need or desire to,” Connor replies. He looks perplexed, but doesn't say more.
Hank smirks. "Can you cook?" It’s funny imagining Connor, who he's seen so often licking blue goo from floors and sprinting after deviants, cooking.
Connor's face scrunches slightly. "I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it." Now he smirks. "If you're that desperate, I'm sure Sumo won't mind if a few of his cans go missing. It's probably preferable to whatever I'd manage."
"Haha, very funny, Connor. But unlike you, I do actually need to eat. Eventually." He trails off on this last word.
It's then that Hank realizes how fucking tired he is. What time is it, anyways? 10:27am. The past 24 hours feel like a fever dream. He also hasn't slept since.... When the fuck did he last sleep?
After he and Connor split ways at Cyberlife tower, he went to the park and tried to calm his nerves. However, for the first time in a long time, he found himself unable to drink even a beer—felt he might be needed, and that he’d have to be ready. Sharp. And that thought made him even more anxious, more agitated.
So he got back in his car and drove around the city, trying to find somewhere with a TV. His phone was a useless brick with communications shut down nationwide several days prior. The streets were deserted, stores and bars closed. Not even looters wanted to chance encounters with deviants, apparently.
He did pass several groups of soldiers and androids, and he felt sick when he inevitably imagined Connor kneeling in the snow, a machine gun pressed to the back of his head. At one point he witnessed such an execution, and something about the bright blue thirium against the snow—hell, it fucking glowed in the dark…. He’d barely driven two blocks before he had to swerve to a curb and open his door to puke.
“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”
Hank really looks at the android now, and is pained to see the bullet hole, the blue blood now dried along his shoulder, spattered like neon paint along the front and sides of his usually neat jacket. Connor is filthy, his hair is a mess, his clothes are frayed and torn in places. It’s a miracle he’s alive.
Alive.
Hank smiles and leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "So what now?"
Connor looks tired, if that's possible. He inhales sharply and looks away. It’s such a human trait, looking away to think. As if staring while your brain is churning isn’t polite.
His eyes dart back to Hank, worried. “I don’t know. For the first time, I don’t have a mission. That…‘voice’ in my head is quiet.”
“That’s how humans feel all the time, Connor. We have no idea what the fuck we’re supposed to do. But finding that purpose? That’s what makes us human. That’s free will, Connor.”
You gave me a purpose again.
One side of Connor’s mouth pulls into that familiar smile, as if he can read Hank’s thoughts.
“Well, for a start, why don’t you go clean yourself up?” Hank suggests. “You look like you got shot.”
Connor peers down at the hole in his shoulder, taking in his disheveled appearance. “You’re right—I’m a mess.”
“I have some clothes that might fit you, from when I was uh….younger.”
“I suppose mine aren’t really suitable any more,” Connor replies. Without hesitation or ceremony, he removes his jacket. But he holds it gently, folds it so that the “RK800” and serial number in iridescent silver faces up. Stares a moment.
Getting sentimental, Connor?
Before, Hank would have said this aloud, jokingly. He wonders what Connor feels, about to relinquish one of the few things he has, one of the only things that has ever identified him.
You’re more than a number now. You don’t belong to Cyberlife.
Connor looks at Hank and holds his jacket out to him. “Will you put this somewhere for safekeeping?”
Hank smiles. “Sure.”
With that, Connor starts towards the bathroom. But he stops. “You wouldn’t happen to have a soldering iron, would you?”
Before Hank can ask ‘what the fuck’, Connor adds, “for my shoulder.”
“Ah, shit. No. Is that how you normally fix yourself?”
“No. Normally I’d return to Cyberlife and have them repair me.”
“It doesn’t...hurt, though, right? You’re fully functional and all?”
Connor smiles. “I’m alright, Lieutenant. I suppose I wanted to fix it more for your sake, so you’ll stop looking worried.”
Hank scratches the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. Before either of them can say anything more, Connor continues down the hallway.
Hank follows, heading into his bedroom as Connor turns into the bathroom. He opens the closet and reaches for the far right side. He has some old t-shirts, a couple button-ups, even a black suit jacket. He hasn’t worn it since…. But he grabs it anyway, thinking that perhaps Connor may still prefer to wear a jacket. Hell, Connor probably doesn’t even know what he prefers at this point, but at least he’ll have options. More than anyone’s ever given him. He grabs a pair of old jeans, too. He even considers a tie, but decides it’s time for Connor to loosen up a little.
He heads to the bathroom, and finds Connor standing before the sink, staring at his reflection. He hasn’t started to clean himself up.
“I, uh, found a few things,” Hank says from the doorway.
Connor turns slightly, and Hank approaches. He offers the clothes, and Connor takes them.
“You need anything else?”
“Just this,” Connor replies. He takes up Hank’s barber style razor, and holds it at chin level.
Hank starts forward, fear punching him in the gut.
But in a flash, Connor has the edge of the razor against his temple. It’s then that Hank realizes he’s going to remove the LED.
Connor looks at Hank in the mirror, and Hank nods.
With a flick of the razor the LED drops, and Connor catches it with his left hand. The spot on his temple quickly recolors, leaving no trace. He pinches the disc between his fingers, looks at it a moment, and then drops it into the trash.
Connor turns to Hank and smiles.
Such a simple thing, the LED. But standing there before him, without that or the jacket—he looks human. If he hadn’t seen the flash of white beneath the skin, Hank would briefly wonder if it was all a show. He’s seen cops go undercover so well and for so long that he barely recognized them without the cover.
As Connor picks up the shirts to examine them, Hank turns to leave. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Hank grunts a “mmm” in response and pulls the door mostly shut.
Suddenly his house feels foreign, like when you return from a long vacation and everything smells different.
Overwhelmed, he sinks heavily into the couch.
Will Connor stay with him? He’ll offer, of course. He can use the couch, or I could convert the garage…. Wait, he doesn’t even sleep, does he? Well, he needs somewhere to be, or else he’ll just be....here, all the time.
But what if Connor decides to live with the androids? Will he leave Detroit?
Fuck, what will he do? He’ll never return to DPD, not after attacking Perkins, letting Connor into the evidence room. He’d tossed his badge and gun on Fowler’s desk to avoid being arrested—although he won’t be surprised if Perkins decides to press charges, tries to get him thrown in jail for assaulting a federal agent. What’s the minimum sentence for that? Six months? A year?
Not worth worrying about now.
Seeing Hank on the couch, Sumo raises his head.
“C’mere, Sumo.”
Sumo slowly gets up from his bed and pads his way over. Hank pats the couch, and Sumo jumps up to lie down next to him. He places his head on his leg.
“That’s a good boy, Sumo.” Hank scratches his head, gives him a solid pat on the back.
Without androids doing pretty much all of the labor, he imagines the country will be in chaos shortly. Stores will be ransacked, people desperate for supplies. Terrified of androids, who will all soon be aware—alive—will humans flee the cities? Surely some androids will be angry, seek justice for years of slavery and abuse. Will Detroit become a capital for the androids?
His thoughts are interrupted by Connor approaching from the hall. Before he can turn to look at him, the android steps around to the front of the couch. He’s wearing the old Knights of the Black Death t-shirt, once black but now a faded dark gray. He’s rinsed his hair and apparently tried to towel dry it because he looks a little like a cockatoo. Gone is the dirt and the blue blood. He’s kept the rest of his outfit the same, but he looks like a kid in his 30s now.
Kid, Hank? You old fuck.
But something about seeing Connor like this fills him with hope. Hope for the world, but most importantly, for himself. He feels alive for the first time in three years. There’s plenty to worry about, sure, but it all seems distant.
“I put the other clothes on your bed,” says Connor. He holds up his white shirt, stained with blue. “I’d like to keep this, if we can get the stains out.”
“Just toss it in with my stuff.”
Connor looks around.
“Shit, sorry—the washer’s in the garage, the door at the end of the hall.”
“Ah.”
“Here, just put it down. I’ll wash it later.”
Connor sets the folded shirt on the arm of the couch, and looks at Hank. His expression softens. “I haven’t thanked you for what you did,” he says. “Not just at the station, but back with the other Connor. It—he—would have killed me.”
Hank grimaces. “It’s my own damn fault he was even there, Connor. I should have realized it wasn’t you.”
“I doubt you could have. At any rate, thank you, Hank. For everything."
Is that the first time he’s ever called him by his name?
Hank smiles. “You’re welcome. You’re also welcome to stay here, Connor, for however long you want to. I, uh...wouldn’t mind some company. I’m sure Sumo wouldn’t, either.”
Connor looks at Hank, smiling that half smile of his.
Hank doesn’t have a word for what Connor is to him, but he knows that he loves him. And he hopes that he’ll stay, at least for a while.
“I’d like that,” Connor replies.
Hank smiles. “First rule of living here, Connor: If Sumo is lying on you, you don’t have to move.”
“I think that’s a fair rule. Can I get you something?”
“No, no. At some point I’ll have to go out scavenging for lunch, but right now, I just want to sit here.”
His eyes feel heavy, as heavy as Sumo’s head on his leg. The house is quiet, snow gently falling outside.
He feels the couch sink slightly as Connor sits beside Sumo, and he opens an eye to see the android curling up like a cat at the other end of the couch, laying his head on Sumo.
Tears sting Hank’s eyes, and he shuts them tighter to keep them at bay. But his heart is full to bursting, and soon he’s quietly sobbing.
He would risk his life again for Connor, and again, and whatever number of times circumstances demanded. He would gladly go to jail for his role in the android revolution because Connor is free. Alive. Whatever price fate might demand of him, he’ll pay it. Because for the first time since he can remember, he’s whole.
- Lists Jack, Phil, and Tommy as the people he cares about (so not Fundy, Niki, or Tubbo)
- "The vice-president suit never fit you. What are you, a concierge?"
- "I don't lie anymore." (Analysis of Purpled's UFO) "I've forgotten everything I knew about TNT."
- Quackity days it's his unpredictability, but I'm inclined to believe that it's the power Wilbur holds
- "Tommy shut up!"
- "What's this big blackatone pillar?" "It's for construc...tion... I think you should go."
- Wilbur telling Quackity how he feels, Wilbur's the only person with whom Quackity is out of his element
- "Congratulations on the opening ceremony of your new, soon-to-fail country."
- Quackity knows how to prey on a person's weaknesses, Wilbur's tactic is (usually) more complicated (fears?)
- "I have utter faith that Tommy will make the right decision." (Think: obsidian wall)
- "You put all of the effort into killing Techno, instead of helping me?" ("One of my best friends.")
- "Tommy, I am not your enemy." "Big Q, I never said you were my enemy."
- Is he going to hurt you? - Tommy says he can handle it but Wilbur makes a sword and goes
- "You're all I've got." (Phil's on the wrong end of a bad stick. Anarchism ?)
- "Do you know what has substance Tommy? Family. Blood."
- The penis is always larger on the other side
- "I betrayed Technoblade." "This can be a safe place for them."
- Tommy's decision about staying with family feels less like succumbing to manipulation and more like being aware of what Wilbur's doing (I can fix him)
- "Don't try to compare me to you, Wilbur. You and me are not the same."
- "I just don't want him to hurt you." "I can fend for myself. You haven't been here for a long time."
- Quackity places sand in order to be on the same physical level as Wilbur. (Wilbur does it in other cases.) He keeps calling it the "TommyInnit restaurant" and acting like it's a mistake
- "Aren't you supposed to be engaged?"
- "Some people don't even know I'm back yet and I think that's for the best."
- Tommy's on the edge of the balcony talking about how much of a paradise the place is. Wilbur seems to mouth "say it" before punching when Tommy declines Q's offer. (Another test?)
- Quackity confesses to visiting Dream regularly. - "Oh he must love that." - Tommy knows what's been happening (and Quackity tells him not to say it)
- "There's a warden? [...] How are you visiting him?"
- Wilbur explains to Tommy that Quackity considers the old Wilbur correct - "I'm tying up loose ends. [...] if you don't want me to visit Dream, genuinely, I won't. But you've gotta let me, man."
- "All I'm saying is, what could go wrong in a prison?"
Sanitation departments are like police: part of their job is enforcing the cruelty demanded by capitalists to create as deep a level of poverty as possible. In the video and photo above, they destroy the only homes for two unsheltered residents. This is not uncommon.
Police exist to inflict cruelty and racial terrorism on the poor, Black, and other identities marginalized by white supremacy. They don't reduce harm: a woman helping her neighbor move her belongings hurt no one, damaged nothing. Yet police arrested her.
Donations will go towards crucial supplies for our unhoused comrades such as handwashing stations, hygiene and harm reduction supplies, te
