It is very funny to me how clearly Connor hates the McJesus nickname. Any time someone calls him that to his face, you can see him visibly cringe in disgust.
I wanted to make this a little longer but I feel like it reached a good stopping point. Poor Connor he needs a kiss on the forehead
“I’m going on break.” Your coworker taps your shoulder as you stack freshly cleaned glasses back on the rack. “A group of guys just came in. Do you mind taking them for me?”
“Sure,” you say, placing the final glass. Brushing your hands on your pants, you swivel around to face the open bar. Throwing on your flashiest smile, you approach. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get you started with?”
“No, no, no,” the first man slurs, clearly already drunk. “There’s no way I’m letting an android make my drinks. Where’s that other girl, huh? She makes good drinks.”
Letting the sleezy comment roll off your shoulder, you give him a charismatic smirk. “She’s helping the kitchen right now, so you get me or nothing. Take your pick.”
Two of the three men sigh in resignation. The third runs his eyes up and down your figure. “I bet you make a mean drink.”
Creep. “So I’ve been told. What’ll it be, fellas?”
They concede, ordering some drink only a man gets to prove himself of something. These drinks are boring. What’s the point of being a mixologist if no one ever orders anything exciting? Whatever. You mix their drinks and deliver them with a friendly, “Let me know when you’re ready for your next round!”
Because you know they’ll be here all damn night.
About an hour later, another group sits at the bar. Cops. The attitude alone gives them away. The six of them slide up to the bar and take a seat.
“Evening, Officers,” you say with a charismatic smile. “Are we ordering food today, or just drinks?”
The leader of the pack faces you, smile falling into something like confusion. “Uh, just drinks to start with.”
Okay, weird. “Well, then, I am at your service.”
You work your way down the line of officers, collecting their orders. Down at the very end of the line, sits an android. Interesting. Not many androids enjoy the bar scene.
“And for you, darling?” you ask with a charismatic air.
He glances up at you, face shifting from surprise to confusion. His eyes lock on your face, an unreadable emotion clouding his face. This isn’t the normal look from a man. No. This is different. Scoffing playfully, you ask, “What? Do I look like your girlfriend?”
He looks down at the bar, clenching his hands into tight fists. “Yes, you do.”
There’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Setting down your shaker, you lean over the bar. “Is that a good thing?”
“You look just like her,” he says, breathless. “Your face is exactly the same.”
“Well, you know what they say. Every android is designed after somebody. Something about psychology,” you tease.
He doesn’t smile. “She died after the revolution. I don’t- I apologize, this isn’t appropriate.”
Well, there goes your tip. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for your loss. Why don’t I make you something to drink, hm? Do you have a preference?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll make you something special.”
You move to the back wall, gathering all the whiskeys, liquors, and beers for the line of officers. Finally, your coworker returns.
“Need help?” she offers.
“Please. I gotta get this android fella’s drink started. Can you work on these?” You write down the drinks of the other officers. She takes it and nods. “Thank you.”
Thirium cocktails take significantly longer to prepare. The science of it is something you’ve studied thoroughly, making you the only qualified mixologist here to make them. Most of the favorings are toxic to humans, so you must be careful in your workspace. You put together one of your favorite drinks. Something that many androids describe as sweet, maybe a little fruity. Not that they can really compare to real fruit.
After a quick straw test, you determine the drink to be acceptable. Setting the drink in front of him, you quietly offer your name.
It’s not hers, but nice nonetheless. You sound like her. Your manner of speaking is almost identical. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it’s her. “My name is Connor.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say warmly. It’s your intention to walk away, but your curiosity gets the better of you. “Maybe she had a relative at CyberLife? That could explain it.”
He sips the drink. “I don’t know.”
You prop your elbows up on the bar. “Tell me about her. Anything you want.”
“You have other patrons,” he says, glancing over the bar.”
Pulling a stopwatch out of your apron, you click it. “Lucky for you, I just went on break. These new android laws are really paying off.”
A spark of amusement crosses his eyes. Leaning on the bar slightly, he takes another sip. “She had the most beautiful laugh. And she had the kindest soul, kinder than this world deserved. She loved to dance. She would beg me to dance with her, and I… never had the courage to do it. I don’t know how to dance. I wish… I wish I had. Just once.”
“It sounds like you really loved her,” you say earnestly.
“More than anything.”
Glancing back into the wall mirror, you catch your reflection. The face of someone adored, loved, and dearly missed. Warmth flushes your cheeks, and your eyes sting uncomfortably. Turning back to Connor, you smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, she was very beautiful.”
Ending where Hank commits a suicide, but Connor becomes deviant. When they win the revolution, he comes back to Hank's house and takes care of Sumo. This is all he can do for Hank now, but he never lets go the thought that he didn't save Hank
