Part II _ Protocol: Protecting Connor
Connor RK800 Fandom: Detroit:Become Human Words: 1789
*Trigger Warnings* android discrimination, workplace hostility, emotional manipulation, existential themes, CyberLife control/coercion, implied deviancy, tension/anxiety, mild verbal aggression, hurt/comfort, slow-burn romance, identity crisis, emotional vulnerability, brief mentions of violence/threats, software instability/malfunction themes
The Zen Garden appeared in fragments now.
Not because Connor’s systems were failing — CyberLife would never allow something so inefficient — but because something inside him had begun interrupting the clean perfection of the simulation.
The water should have reflected the evening sky flawlessly.
Instead, ripples distorted the surface every few seconds, small glitches breaking across the pond whenever a particular memory replayed in his mind.
Your laugh in the bullpen. Your hand wrapping around his wrist before Hank could shove him aside. The way your heartbeat accelerated whenever you argued with the lieutenant on his behalf.
Connor stood still beneath the dark branches of the tree while Amanda approached him in silence, heels barely disturbing the stone path.
“You hesitated today.”
Connor turned toward her immediately. “The suspect was armed.”
“You had a clear shot.”
“I prioritized civilian safety.”
Amanda studied him for a long moment.
Her expression remained calm, composed, carefully pleasant — the way it always was before she said something sharp enough to cut through his processors.
“Your priority was Detective Y/L/N.”
Connor’s LED pulsed once. Blue. Then yellow.
“The detective was in immediate danger.”
“You continue to display unusual behavioral patterns regarding them.”
Connor straightened slightly. “I am adapting to my environment and improving cooperative efficiency within the department.”
Amanda stepped closer. “You monitor their emotional state excessively.”
Connor said nothing.
“You interrupt Lieutenant Anderson more frequently when his hostility is directed at them.”
Silence.
“You position yourself physically closer to them during confrontational encounters.”
Connor’s thirium pump accelerated. Amanda noticed. Of course she did. “You are becoming compromised.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Connor immediately responded, voice level and precise. “I am simply adapting.”
Amanda tilted her head. “Then explain this.”
Images flickered around them.
Security footage. Bodycam recordings. Audio transcripts.
Connor watching you smile at him over coffee in the break room. Connor turning toward you before anyone else entered a room. Connor stepping between you and an aggressive suspect despite lower mission priority. Connor looking at you.
Again. And again. And again.
His LED spun faster. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow—
“You prioritize their approval,” Amanda observed.
“That is inaccurate.”
“You seek them out.”
“I work alongside them daily.”
“You experience stress responses when they are threatened.”
Connor’s jaw tightened slightly.
Amanda’s voice softened. Almost pitying.
“And when Lieutenant Anderson insults you, Detective Y/L/N intervenes before you request assistance.”
Connor replayed those moments involuntarily.
You stepping between them. You glaring at Hank. You saying Stop treating him like that.
Not because Connor demanded it. Because you cared.
Amanda watched the instability spike across his system. “You are developing emotional dependency.”
“No,” Connor answered immediately. But his voice came half a second too late.
Amanda’s gaze sharpened. “CyberLife designed you to investigate deviancy, Connor. Not emulate it.”
His LED flashed red. Briefly. Violently.
And Amanda saw it.
The silence afterward felt catastrophic.
Then she spoke the words that truly destabilized him. “Detective Y/L/N may become a liability.”
Red. His LED flickered crimson so abruptly the garden itself distorted around him.
Connor stepped forward before he consciously processed the movement. “No.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. Interesting.
“Explain your response.”
Connor’s systems scrambled for composure. “The detective is valuable to the investigation.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
A lie.
Not a human lie — not emotional, not defensive. But statistically inaccurate nonetheless.
Amanda circled him slowly. “If your instability continues, CyberLife may be forced to reevaluate your assignment.”
Connor’s thirium pressure spiked. “You would remove me from the investigation?”
“We would protect the mission.”
Meaning: Protect Connor from himself.
Or protect CyberLife from Connor.
Amanda stopped directly in front of him. “You were not built to feel attached.”
Connor looked down at the pond again. The water reflected your face for half a second. A memory bleeding into simulation.
His voice lowered almost imperceptibly. “…Understood.”
But even as he said it, he realized something deeply concerning.
The idea of losing the investigation barely affected him. The idea of losing you destabilized him instantly.
The bullpen smelled like burnt coffee and old paperwork by the time Connor returned to the station.
Voices overlapped across the room. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone laughing too loudly near dispatch.
And then there was you.
Sitting at your desk with your sleeves rolled up, focused on paperwork with a frustrated crease between your eyebrows.
Connor stopped walking for 0.8 seconds. Just enough for his processors to recalibrate.
You noticed immediately. “Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”
His systems warmed. Ridiculous.
“I am functioning within normal parameters.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly. “That’s android for ‘absolutely not.’”
Connor opened his mouth to respond before Hank appeared carrying terrible coffee and even worse attitude.
“Great,” Hank muttered. “Tin can’s back.”
You shot him a look. “Hank.”
“What? He was gone for two hours staring into space somewhere.”
Connor remained still beside your desk.
Hank took one look at him and sighed heavily. “You know, I miss the days when partners came with drinking problems instead of software updates.”
You snorted despite yourself. Connor looked at you automatically.
Amanda’s voice echoed in his memory. You seek them out.
His LED flickered yellow.
You noticed that too. Concern softened your face instantly. “Connor?”
“I am fine.”
Hank stared between the two of you for a long moment. Then his expression shifted.
Not annoyance. Recognition. “Oh, hell no.”
You blinked. “What?”
Hank pointed between you and Connor vaguely. “This. Whatever the hell this is.”
“There is no ‘this,’” Connor answered immediately.
Too quickly. Again.
Hank barked out a humorless laugh. “Jesus Christ, you’re both hopeless.”
“Hank,” you warned.
“No, listen to me.” He set his coffee down harder than necessary. “You’re getting attached.”
The bullpen noise suddenly felt farther away.
Connor remained perfectly motionless.
You crossed your arms defensively. “We’re partners.”
“He’s a machine.”
Connor’s LED dimmed slightly. You noticed.
“Hank—”
“No.” Hank looked directly at you now. Serious for once. “You think CyberLife won’t pull the plug if he steps outta line?”
Connor’s processors froze.
Hank continued before you could interrupt. “You think they care how polite he is? One wrong move and they’ll wipe him clean or replace him with another model.”
Connor stared at the floor. Not because he lacked response. Because he had too many.
You looked furious now. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s reality.”
“He’s trying harder than half the people in this department!”
“And he’s still a machine.”
The words hit harder than Connor expected. Because this time Hank wasn’t yelling. He sounded tired. Certain. Like Connor’s existence had already been decided for him.
And then Hank said the one thing Connor couldn’t process correctly.
“You keep treating him like a person and eventually it’s gonna get one of you hurt.”
Silence. Connor looked up instinctively. At you. Not Hank. Always you.
Your expression shifted the second you saw him standing there. Hurt. Not physically. Something quieter. Something worse.
Connor turned away before either of you could say anything and walked down the hallway. Fast enough to escape. Slow enough to hear you snap: “Hank, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Connor stood alone near the evidence room for exactly four minutes and eleven seconds before you found him. He’d spent that entire time attempting to stabilize his systems.
Failure percentage: Concerningly high.
You approached slower than usual. Carefully. Like he might disappear.
“Connor.”
He turned toward you immediately despite himself.
Your face softened. “Hank’s an asshole.”
Connor managed a faint nod. “Lieutenant Anderson displays elevated hostility under emotional stress.”
“That’s the most diplomatic way anyone’s ever called him emotionally constipated.”
A pause. Normally Connor would attempt humor here. He’d learned humans liked that. But his processors remained tangled around one sentence. He’s still a machine.
You stepped closer. “Hey.” Softer now. “Don’t listen to him.”
Connor looked at you for a long moment before speaking quietly. “…Would you prefer if I remained only functional?”
The question hit you like a physical blow.
Connor continued before you could answer. “If emotional adaptation compromises the mission, I can correct the behavior.”
Your heartbeat changed instantly. Connor noticed.
“You think caring about people is a malfunction?”
“I was not designed for attachment.”
“And yet here you are.”
Connor’s LED flickered yellow. Unstable.
“You defend me constantly,” he said quietly. “You prioritize my wellbeing despite social consequences within the department. Your behavior is statistically inconsistent with standard human-android relations.”
You stared at him. “Connor…”
“I need clarity.”
There it was again. That awful, careful politeness he used whenever he was afraid of the answer.
“I do not wish to cause problems for you.”
The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too honest. You stepped closer until there was barely any distance left between you.
Connor’s thirium pump accelerated immediately.
“You are not a problem.”
His eyes lifted to yours slowly. “But Lieutenant Anderson may be correct. If CyberLife determines I am compromised—”
“Then CyberLife can deal with me.”
Connor’s systems stalled for 1.2 seconds. “You would oppose them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question came out smaller than intended. Not analytical. Not investigative. Personal.
You looked at him for a long moment before answering. “Because you matter to me.”
Direct hit.
Connor’s LED spun violently yellow-red-yellow before stabilizing blue again. His breathing simulation stuttered. You noticed all of it. And somehow that only made your expression softer.
“Connor,” you said carefully, “you’re not just some machine people get to kick around whenever they’re angry.”
He stared at you silently.
“You’re kind,” you continued. “You try harder than anyone else here. You care about people even when they treat you horribly.”
Connor’s voice dropped lower. “I care about you significantly more.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence. Connor froze.
System warning messages exploded across his vision.
INSTABILITY INCREASING.
EMOTIONAL RESPONSE EXCEEDS PARAMETERS.
You looked stunned.
Connor immediately straightened. “I apologize. That statement was inappropriate.”
“No,” you breathed instantly. “No, it wasn’t.”
His LED flickered. Blue. Uncertain.
You smiled then — small and nervous and unbearably warm. And Connor realized something catastrophic. He wanted to see that expression again. Repeatedly. Constantly. Dangerously.
Your hand moved before you could overthink it, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve near his wrist.
Connor stopped functioning for approximately one entire second. You definitely noticed.
A laugh escaped you softly. “There you are.”
Connor blinked. “...There who is?”
“The guy underneath all the programming.”
His chest tightened strangely. Not painful. Worse. Meaningful.
From the bullpen, Hank yelled: “If you two are flirting, do it after work hours!”
You jumped slightly.
Connor looked confused. “…Are we flirting?”
You laughed harder this time.
And Connor decided — perhaps for the first time in his existence — that he would very much like to hear that sound again.
