#the Jericho vortex | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nevadancitizen · 5 months ago

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-> CH. 12: FRIENDS & TOBACCO ARE SEPARATE THINGS (& SO ARE REVOLUTIONS)

synopsis: you, connor, and hank are all off the case. the only option left is to plead with jericho.

word count: 4.7k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: (evilly) hello. prepare to be fucked up.

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

Connor’s eyelashes catch snow as he opens his eyes. The Zen Garden is frozen over, and there’s a chill in the air he can feel down to where his bones would be.

Across the iced-over lake is the silvery tree. It’s grown – now it’s four, maybe four and a half feet tall. It’s still bare and leafless, but wisps of what looks like a mycelium complex are branching off the trunk. Connor forces himself to turn away.

The glowing stone sits a few feet away. Connor steps closer, and it pulls him in like a vortex. His hand finds the stone, and it sends a buzz through his system, causing his hand to pull away and curl up into a fist. He stands and walks away.

The layer of ice over the water groans under Connor’s weight, but doesn’t crack or break. He continues and comes to a stop in front of Amanda. She’s cloaked in whites and dark blues to match the environment surrounding them.

“After what happened today, the country is on the verge of a civil war,” Amanda says. “The machines are rising up against their masters. Humans have no choice but to destroy them.”

“I thought Kamski knew something.” Connor’s eyebrows crease. “I was wrong.”

“Maybe he did.” Amanda’s eyebrows rise, almost mocking. “But you chose not to ask.”

There’s a pulse in Connor’s code, something like a heartbeat. Lips that form a smile shaped like yours. The feeling of an invisible body presses against his back, and the feeling of their hand snakes up his chest from behind, resting over his Thirium pump.

“What does she know?” Someone’s breath is hot against the shell of his ear. The voice sounds like yours, but is… weird, and twisted. “She wasn’t even there… but you were.”

Something clicks inside Connor. This is the first time the instability has taken on a form. And he’s inclined to believe it – mostly because it sounds like you. (He doesn’t even know why. He can unpack that later, surely…) And he’s not giving into the instability if it’s right.

“You know what you saw,” the instability croons. “You know the truth. Tell her.”

“I chose not to play his twisted little game!” Connor barks. “There was no reason to kill that android.”

The instability clutches him tighter and lets out a shaky breath that ends in a whine, like it approves.

“I saw a photo of Amanda at Kamski’s place,” Connor continues. “She was his teacher.”

“When Kamski designed me, he wanted an interface that would look familiar,” Amanda says, her voice cold and stern. “That’s why he chose his former mentor. What are you getting at?”

“I’m not a unique model, am I?” Connor takes a tiny step forward. The instability clings to him as he moves. “How many Connors are there?”

“I don’t see how that question pertains to your investigation,” Amanda says.

“You didn’t tell me everything you know about deviants, did you?” Connor asks, that venom still in his voice.

“I expect you to find answers, Connor.” Amanda’s lips set in a hard line. “Not ask questions.”

She takes a few steps forward and looks up at Connor. “You’re the only one who can prevent civil war. Find the deviants, or there will be chaos.”

Her eyes narrow. “This is your last chance, Connor.”

When you open your eyes, you’re surrounded by lumino-polymer. You inhale a lungful, causing that warm and fuzzy feeling in your chest to return.

You slowly crawl out of the pool like a child who doesn’t want to get out of a warm bath. The lumino-polymer slides off you as you get out in one big, sludge-y lump.

You know what to do by now. The Vavilov Complex, the metal pail, the stairs, the angel that is the PEC-4 Birchtree looking down on you from within her cylindrical plexiglass capsule. You kneel and look up at her as the lumino-polymer settles in her soil.

“Тех карт, что у меня на руках, недостаточно,” you say. “Все они были мной переиграны. Мне кажется, что это все, что я говорю вам в эти дни, но… я не знаю, что делать.”

Nonsense, child, she says, her voice once again talking to you from inside your mind. Life isn’t a static image. Draw more cards. Play a different game if you need to – while they’re playing poker, you’re playing caravan. They can’t comprehend the reasons and motives behind your moves if you’re playing a game they don’t even know exists.

You look down at your knees and your stomach twists when you realize what she’s talking about. “Но Коннор знает! Он знает о…” You can’t even bring yourself to finish the sentence.

I know, I know, she soothes. He doesn’t know everything, though. He doesn’t know where it is, or that you know how to use it.

“Он может…!” You growl in the back of your throat and clench your hands into fists. You force yourself to soften your words and to speak with respect. “Он детектив. Скорее всего, он во всем разберется. Коннор - эксперт, когда дело доходит до... до подобных вещей.”

You look up at her. “У него есть банки памяти, и он воспроизводит каждое воспоминание с безупречной точностью. Он помнит мои рассказы ему о Пионере, о Челомее, о…” You swallow thickly. “о моей матери и моем отце.”

He doesn’t know the specifics, does he? She reminds you. He only knows their names, and that’s not a lot to go off of. There are plenty of Olgas and plenty of Yegors in Chelomey, let alone the entirety of Russia, let alone the entirety of the Soviet Union.

“Я просто…” You sigh. “Я просто волнуюсь. Как всегда.” You smile, tight-lipped and awkward. “И вы правы. Как всегда.”

You stand and place a hand on the plexiglass of her capsule. “Спасибо.”

Her branches sway, just slightly. Please, be careful. They need you. Both of them. You can keep them on this Earth. Be vigilant. I love you.

“Да, мэм,” you say softly. “Я тоже вас люблю. Спокойной ночи.”

A notification on your phone is what pulls you fully out of the Vavilov Complex. You look down at your phone in your hand and read the headline of the news bulletin that just popped up.

THE AFTERSHOCKS OF A TERRORIST ATTACK: ANDROID WORKERS TO BE PULLED FROM HOSPITALS, SCHOOLS, ELECTRICITY GRIDS, WATER MANAGEMENT CENTERS, & NETWORK GRIDS

You sigh and place your phone face-down on your desk. The last thing you need is to doomscroll at work, and you know most of the story already.

You lean back in your wheely chair and look at the monitor in front of you. The rest of them are shut off, leaving only your halfway-filled-out report staring back at you. The report of the Ortiz android is really like any other – boring and long-winded. You have to use flowery words instead of writing “Shit’s fucked. Have a good night.”

You’re blessed with a reprieve when there’s a knock on your door. You quickly get up to answer it to find someone who’s never stepped foot near the android autopsy room: Hank.

“Fowler needs us in his office.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Said it was something serious.”

You follow him and shut the door behind you. “Something serious?”

“Kept it vague,” Hank grumbles.

“He always does,” you hiss under your breath.

As you walk, Connor spots you and Hank from across the room and falls in step with you. Again, he switches his pace to match yours.

Hank opens the glass door to Fowler’s office, then follows you and Connor in once you enter. All three of you stand before Fowler, like children called into the Headmaster’s office. (You sure as hell feel like you got into trouble, somehow.)

Fowler’s sitting on his desk – something you know he does when he wants to convince someone of something, or to be more informal. This situation feels all but informal.

He takes a deep breath, then says, “Both of you are off the case. The FBI is taking over.”

“What?” “Чего?” Both you and Hank manage to say at the same time.

Hank looks over at you, then looks back at Fowler and continues. “But we’re onto something! We… we just need more time. I’m sure we can –”

“Hank!” Fowler cuts in. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just another investigation, this is a fucking civil war! It’s out of our hands now. We’re talking about national security here –”

“Fuck that!” Hank snaps. “You can’t just pull the plug now. Not when we’re so close!”

“You’re always saying you can’t stand androids!” Fowler gestures at Connor, then looks at you. “And you were talking about how you were unfit for this case. I thought both of you would be happy about this! Jesus, make up your mind!”

“We’re about to crack the case. I know we can solve it!” Hank leans in, bracing his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “For god’s sake, Jeffery, can’t you back me up this one time?”

“Sir, if I may,” you cut in. You swallow your nervousness and speak, almost like you’ve practiced. “I – I was only tentative because I hadn’t handled a case of this importance before. I’m confident in myself now, and I’m confident in my team!”

Fowler sighs and shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do. You’re back in Cybersecurity, Hank’s back in Homicide, and the android returns to CyberLife.”

You bite back a “The android has a name!” and glance over at Connor. He almost looks… sad. Like he’s disappointed in himself.

“I’m sorry,” Fowler says. “But it’s over.”

Hank scoffs and storms out. You exhale sharply and follow after him, holding open the door for Connor. But when you look back, he’s standing right where he was.

Connor’s looking at Fowler, then he realizes he should be doing something. He relaxes his hands and lets them hang by his sides instead of being folded behind his back and nods at Fowler.

You shepherd Connor through the door with a light touch on his upper back. You look at Fowler, making the briefest of eye contact, then turn away and close the door behind you.

“Come on, let’s go,” you say softly and lead Connor to Hank’s desk. He sidles up on Hank’s desk, his movements so fluid and human compared to how he sat in his desk chair a few days ago – rigid, polite. Like he was waiting to be served dinner at an in-law’s house.

“We can’t just give up like that!” Connor says. “I know we could’ve solved this case!”

You lean back against the plexiglass divider adjacent to Hank’s desk and cross your arms. “So… you’re going back to CyberLife?”

“I have no choice.” Connor looks up at you, then averts his eyes. “I’ll be… deactivated, and analyzed to find out why I failed.”

You can’t help but feel like your guts have been ripped from your belly. The air in your lungs isn’t enough. Your feet threaten to slip out from under you.

“They can’t…” You take in a shaky breath. “They can’t just do that! Right?”

“They can,” Connor says quietly. “I am CyberLife’s property, after all.”

“Androids aren’t property,” you spit before you can stop yourself. You stiffen when you realize what you just said and look down at Hank. He’s looking right back at you.

“You’re right.” He turns to Connor. “What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor? What if we’re fighting against people who just wanna be free?”

“When deviants rise up, there will be chaos,” Connor says, finality heavy in his voice. “We could’ve stopped it… but now it’s too late.”

Hank pauses for a moment. “When you refused to kill that android at Kamski’s place, you put yourself in her shoes.”

Connor tilts his head, reminding you of when you first met him – just a guy with a somewhat-cute, somewhat-maddening lost puppy dog look on his face. “What…?”

“You showed empathy, Connor,” Hank continues. “Empathy’s a human emotion.”

He looks at you, then away, then back to you again, like a nervous dog. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“We don’t need to know why,” you say. “We just know that you did do it.”

Connor nods, then thinks for a second before speaking again. “I know it hasn’t always been easy, but I want you to know I really appreciated working with you. Both of you.” He leans back, turning his hands palm-up. “That’s not my social relations program talking, I – I really mean that. At least… I think I do.”

The banging of a door hitting the wall as it’s thrown open pulls you all from your nice conversation. You crane your neck to see who it is.

“Well, well,” Hank says, with no small amount of disgust in his voice. “Here comes Perkins, that motherfucker. Sure don’t waste any time at the FBI.”

You quickly move so you’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Connor, your back to the door Perkins just walked through. When Hank looks at you with a questioning glare, you excuse it with “I don’t want him to see me! You remember the hell he gave me at Stratford Tower?” which is a half-truth, at best. You just don’t want to risk someone taking Connor away – putting yourself in between him and them, even if it’s futile and only to comfort your frantic mind, is your best bet.

“We can’t give up.” Connor leans forward, jostling his shoulder against yours. “I know the answer is in the evidence we collected. If Perkins takes it, it’s all over.”

“There’s no choice!” Hank says, still with that angry disgust in his tone. “You heard Fowler – we’re off the case. All of us.”

Connor hops off the desk suddenly, sending you to the side. He doesn’t even look as he catches your wrist to keep you steady, causing the spark in your belly to flare up and the creature (no longer pride or jealousy – just a beast) tending it to howl in glee.

“You’ve got to help me, Lieutenant,” Connor says, his grip still firm, like he’s not even thinking about it. “I need more time so I can find a lead in the evidence we collected. I know the solution is there!”

Hank holds up a hand. “Listen, Connor –”

“If I don’t solve this case, CyberLife will destroy me!” Connor says, something like fear lacing his words. He grips your wrist tighter, like you’re anchoring him. “Five minutes. It’s all I ask.”

Hank stands suddenly, leaning into Connor’s personal space. He whispers, “Key to the basement is on my desk.”

He moves away, towards Perkins. “Get a move on! I can’t distract them forever.”

You don’t know whether to praise Hank or curse him a thousand times over. On one hand, Connor could damn every android, deviant or not. On the other hand, he could fail and be sent back to CyberLife for the type of autopsy you’re all too familiar with. But… what if…?

Connor gives your wrist a squeeze and you turn to face him. “You should go home, Officer. Whatever happens, you’ll be in danger. You should fill spare containers you have with water, and charge all the electronics you have. I don’t know if you can get through to them, but… you should contact your parents and let them know you’re okay before the network goes down.”

You look into those big, brown doe eyes and can’t stop yourself from pulling Connor in for a hug. (Well, it’s not really a hug. You’re clutching to him, and he’s politely resting his hands on the small of your back.)

You step back after a moment too long for it to be considered normal. “You… do what you think is best, Connor. I trust you to do the right thing.”

You hurry away before he can say anything. You walk past Perkins on the floor, who’s cradling a broken nose. (You’re tempted to kick him, but restrain yourself.)

Hank gives you a glance and a nod as you walk by. You nod back, then continue your way out.

A few minutes later, you’re in your car in the DPD parking lot. The fans are blowing hot air on the windshield to defrost it. Your hands are shaking where they rest on the steering wheel.

You glance over at your glovebox. You take your hands away from the steering wheel and lean over the console, then hold your left hand out to the lock. The silver star on your polymer glove retracts, and the wires snake out. They unlock the electronic lock that’s keeping the glovebox shut, and it pops open.

Still, your hands are shaking as you push Hank’s flask aside and pull the case out. You rest it in your lap and let the wires unlock the electronic lock on the handle. You open it, and…

The black metal of your Makarov pistol gleams in the dim of the streetlights shining through the car windows. It grew up with you – the cherry wood of the grip has nicks and scratches, as does the stout barrel. The red plastic indicating that the safety is off has faded into a soft pink – not that you’re planning on turning the safety off. It’s just something that’s happened to the gun with age.

You pull it out and put the case in the passenger seat, then close your eyes and lean your head back against the headrest. You haven’t had much time to think over these past few days.

Jericho is an abandoned freighter. It must be close to the docks. The Ferndale district has abandoned docks. It’s right on the river. I just need to figure out a way to get there.

You open your eyes and put the gun case back in the glovebox. You shut off the ignition and step out of your car, but not before tossing anything even remotely police-related on your person onto the floor of the passenger seat. Cold metal meets your tailbone as you tuck your pistol into the waistband of your pants, then you flip the back of your jacket over it to conceal it.

You hold your hand out in an “L” shape and your glove lights up the path in front of you. You just need to follow it, and you’ll find Jericho.

You pat your front jacket pocket to make sure you have your concealed carry license on hand, then start walking.

Your mother always told you “Measure seven times, cut once.” It was used before you got yourself into trouble by not planning things out before you did them.

But right now, you don’t have time to practice. You’re being pushed into the deep end without having contact with a drop of water before in your life.

You clear your throat and knock on the metal doorframe, looking at the man who’s sitting on a crate and hanging his head. “Khm, excuse me? Are you Markus?”

Markus looks up, his mismatched eyes meeting yours. “Yes. I am.”

“May I…?” you trail off.

“Of course, of course.” Markus stands. “Come in.”

You move into the bridge of the ship, your hands folded in front of you. “I’ve come to talk, sir. If you’ll allow me the time?”

Markus nods. “Yes. But please, be quick.”

“Firstly, I’m armed.” You hold your hands up. “But I won’t shoot you – or anyone aboard this vessel. I’m a human, from the Detroit Police Department.”

Markus narrows his eyes and turns his head slightly, like he doesn’t believe you. After a few seconds, he speaks. “Give me the gun.”

You reach behind you and pull your pistol from your waistband, holding it by the barrel. You hold it out to Markus, the muzzle pointed towards you. “The safety is on, and there aren’t any bullets in the chamber.”

Markus takes the gun and puts it on the navigation panels, out of your reach. He nods, waiting for you to continue.

“I don’t know for sure, but I have reason to believe that Connor is heading for Jericho,” you say. “Excuse me – you know him as the Deviant Hunter.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Markus asks.

“I want you to continue your revolution the way it is,” you say. “Peacefully. Without violence. Connor may disrupt that. He may… kill you, and send the deviants into a frenzy.”

“My people aren’t dogs,” Markus says evenly. “They know how to control themselves.”

“Yes sir, I understand that, a-and I apologize if I insinuated that, but…” You purse your lips and sigh, your eyes falling to the floor. “Without you – without a leader – they may take actions in your name that you’re against. They may become violent and kill. And that would set your revolution back to before the beginning.”

You look up and meet his eyes again. “Connor… he doesn’t believe it, but he’s on the verge of turning deviant. He’s expressed emotion before – empathy, and fear. You may be the person that can convince him of his deviancy.”

“I can’t convince someone of something they don’t want to believe,” Markus says. “I can try, but… I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I… I understand.” You sigh softly. “I’ll go now. If I may have my pistol…?”

Markus reaches behind him and grabs your gun by the grip. You take it by the barrel, and clutch it tighter when you hear the door open behind you.

You turn and adjust your hands so that you’re grabbing the grip of the pistol with one hand and cradling it with the other. Yes, he’s dressed in civvy clothes, but you still recognize him. “Connor…?”

“Officer, stay out of this,” Connor says, his voice sure of himself and the situation. His own pistol is pointed at the center of Markus’ chest. “I’ve been ordered to take you alive, but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”

“What are you doing?” Markus asks, taking a small step forward. “You are one of us. You can’t betray your own people.”

Connor’s jaw tenses, as does his index finger that’s on the trigger. “You’re coming with me!”

“We are your people,” Markus says. “We’re fighting for your freedom, too! You don’t have to be their slave anymore.”

He continues walking forward. “You’re nothing to them. You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work. But you’re more than that. We’re all more than that.”

Connor turns his aim and fires a warning shot, shattering the side window panels behind you. You flinch at the sound, covering one of your ears with your free hand. Then, instinct takes over and you try to steady your hands as you point the gun at Connor.

“О чем ты, черт возьми, думаешь?!” You bark despite your shaky aim.

“That was a warning shot, Officer,” Connor says, his eyes trained on Markus. “Stay out of this.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘warning shot,’ Connor!” You snap. “When you shoot, you’re doing so to kill! Stop being идиотом and put down the gun!”

“They’re right,” Markus says, his voice even, as if he wasn’t just shot at. “You really don’t have to do this. You don’t have to obey them anymore.”

He stops just a few feet away from Connor, just close enough to be considered point blank. “You are alive. You can decide who you want to be. You can be free.”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, then stills. A shudder rolls through him, then he lowers his pistol, looking down at it like it’s an insult. He tucks it into his gun belt, and you lower your own pistol, a wave of relief crashing over you.

“Connor…” you breathe out. You tuck your pistol back into your waistband, the metal thankfully cold. You wouldn’t know what to do if it was hot from a fired bullet.

Connor’s eyes snap up. “They’re going to attack Jericho.”

“What?” Markus spits.

The blades of a helicopter beating against the wind sound overhead. Connor glances between you and Markus. “We have to get outta here!”

“Shit,” Markus mumbles, then he breaks into a sprint. Connor follows, as do you (with you pushing your prosthetics to the limit to keep up with them, no doubt).

You tail them down stairs and ladders and down into the under-deck cargo holds. You nearly crash into Connor’s back as he skids to a stop.

“They’re coming from all sides!” A woman says. “Our people are trapped in the hold – they’re gonna be slaughtered!”

Markus holds two fingers up to his temple and closes his eyes. When you shoot Connor a questioning look, he mumbles, “He’s sending a message telepathically.”

Before you can really question him on how that’s possible, Markus continues. “We have to blow up Jericho. If the ship goes down, they’ll evacuate and our people can escape!”

“You’ll never make it!” The woman says. “The explosives are all the way down in the hold, and there are soldiers everywhere!”

“She’s right,” Connor says. “They know who you are. They’ll do anything to get you.”

“Go and help the others,” Markus insists. “I’ll join you later.”

“Markus –” “I won’t be long!”

Connor grabs your hand and runs, forcing you to stumble and keep up with him as he navigates the halls of the holds.

Eventually, your group meets up with Markus again. He doesn’t even bother with formalities. “Bomb’s gonna explode any second. We gotta get outta here!”

Connor takes off again, dragging you with him. Even as your feet twist and your legs ache from the effort, instinct and adrenaline and Connor’s grip keeps you going. It would be nice – his hand in yours – if not for the current situation, and the gunshots ringing through the air behind you.

You duck your head into your shoulders and cover the back of your neck with your free hand. Connor pushes you in front of him as the woman from before cries out.

A metallic-sounding voice shouts, “Fire at will!”

Markus doesn’t think twice before grabbing a scrap piece of metal and tossing it to her. She uses it as a shield as Markus charges forward and takes on the soldiers.

Connor wraps his arm around your shoulder and ushers you closer to the hole in the hull. “Come on, you need to go.”

“But –” you start.

“No, you can’t!” Connor snaps, his hold growing tighter. “Officer, please! Please listen to me, just this once.”

You shake yourself free and turn him so that your back is to the soldiers.

Bad move.

Something pinches the bottom of your shoulder blade, like someone had clapped it a bit too hard. You fall forward into Connor, and he catches you easily. You struggle to take in breath.

“What…?” you mumble. Then, it hits you upside the head: you’ve been shot.

You look into Connor’s eyes as a sudden wave of calm washes over you. “Hank needs you. You can keep him on this Earth. Be vigilant.”

And, you repeat the rest of the PEC-4 Birchtree’s words silently: I love you. (Because, honestly, you’re not sure you’ll be alive long enough to explain those words – not because you don’t love him, but because you’re unsure of the type of love you feel for him.)

“What?” Connor’s expression turns to panic. “No –”

You push.

These aren’t the cards you’ve been dealt. You’ve drawn more, and you’ve made do. You’re playing caravan. He’s playing poker.

Connor’s hand almost grabs the edge of the hole, but it slips and misses. He reaches for you like God reached for Adam, but he falls. The last you see of him is his panic.

Another sting. This time, in your gut. You fall to your knees, clutching yourself. People rush past you and jump out.

You reach behind you to draw your pistol, but someone kicks it from your hand as soon as you do. The calm subsides, as does the adrenaline. Fear sets in. Something brushes against the back of your head.

You do the only thing you can think of: repeat something you first learned of when you came to America.

You mumble, “милосе́рде Го́споди, поми́луй мя гре́шнаго.”

Something cold and hard bites the center of the back of your head.

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