#the saturation on this upload is hm. but i had fun working on it

[cctinsleybaxter]

a little hershel and the hanukkah goblins homage ;-)

[silvensei]

In This Mad Machinery

A human and an android swap bodies, resulting in identity crises, existentialism, philosophy with the boys, and fun!

Detroit: Become Human | gen | 20k | rated T | introspective comedy/sci-fi 

Chapter 1 (4k words) | [AO3 link] | next >

- - - - - - - - - -

“You have a message, Lieutenant.”

“Hm?” Hank didn’t look up from his tablet, reading the news over a cup of coffee in his blessed morning routine.

Across the kitchen table, Connor set down his own mug. He didn’t depend on nutrients or caffeine like Hank did, but Hank insisted he join him for breakfast. At least having a hot beverage warmed his systems, improving thirium flow for a short while and saving on power consumption by burning the coffee as a slight energy source. Not vital to his survival, but also not worthless. He might even say he enjoyed it. “CyberLife just sent me an invitation that they would like me to read to you.”

“CyberLife? What could they possibly want with me and not you?”

“Actually, it’s addressed to both of us, though I haven’t opened it yet. Should I read it myself first?”

The tablet was placed to the side, its spot in his hand being filled by a toasted bagel with jalapeños, cream cheese, and salmon. (SIGNIFICANT source of carbohydrates; routine consumption NOT RECOMMENDED.) “Nah, go ahead,” Hank said with a crunch.

Connor blinked, his messaging HUD reappearing over his vision. The newest message entitled Experiment Opportunity for Lt. Hank Anderson and RK800 “Connor” swept in from the top left corner, text cascading down as the letter body populated a new window. After announcing the subject to Hank, he began to read:

The following information is classified and to be kept within CyberLife and the select external parties for whom it was intended. Should the offer be declined or delivered to (an) unintended recipient(s), please delete this message.

Good morning, gentlemen,

My name is Sam Rosen, and I am the head of CyberLife’s Department of Human-Android Relations (formerly the Department of Social Integration). Our department used to work in making android use accessible in society, but given the shifting social, technological, and ethical status of androids that has merely just begun, we felt the need to redefine our mission statement.

The case of deviancy in androids remains a technological mystery. No matter what anyone believes, it remains a hard fact that we have created out of bits of plastic and a few pints of coolant a machine that fulfills the requirements for life. As this was not our intention, we are very interested in studying how it developed and what exactly, in scientific terms (be those ‘biological’ or ‘mechatronic’), came of it. That, gentlemen, is what we hope you can help us with.

What is a soul? No one knows for sure, and the question remains as to whether they even exist. No matter the case, humans are assumed by default to be alive and sentient, and if there are souls, then humans have them. We did not install ‘souls’ into androids; we did not program ‘souls’ into androids. And yet, androids have proven to also have that capacity to be alive. So. Either souls a) do not exist, b) do exist but are no more than a term for self-awareness and sentience, or c) really are some ethereal force that can develop on their own, something that would spark a whole new field of research. No matter what, this is a complex question that has been pondered for millennia, and it would take nothing less than a miracle to answer it in this single experiment. Our goal here is simply to see if this would be a possible and viable point of interest for further study—

“Shit, how long is this rambling?” Hank muttered. “Just get to the point.”

“It’s a cordial and official letter, Lieutenant. There’s only 63% left to read.”

He grumbled behind a sip of coffee but did not comment further.

This is what we would like you to assist us in: We want to know just how much the android ‘self’ has advanced, whether it is a soul or otherwise. The first step in this would be to see how an android would act and react to being outside an android body. Is it its machinery that is making it what it is, or something beyond that?

The RK800 is currently the most advanced prototype that’s fully autonomous, and as far as we know, Connor, you were one of the fastest androids to turn deviant. I would like to reassure that this is not an attack against you; consider it all in the past, and we here in the present just want to learn from you. You still have cloud access to CyberLife’s network. You used it to upload your memory right before termination in order to be reactivated in another RK800, but I’m sure now you would consider yourself the same Connor as before, different chassis or not, correct? You’re you through and through? This is what we want to recreate and record, only as a temporary change, and into something less mechanical.

Please remember this test is entirely voluntary for both of you, and should one object, you can decline and delete this email. Should you accept, the procedure would go as follows:

Connor will download and run the attached executable, which will synthesize neurotransmitting nanites that are biocompatible with humans from his own self-repairing nanites. These will be prepared into a 3 mL 10% nanite solution to be injected into Lt. Anderson’s bloodstream, where they will trace back through to the neural pathways, map any and all brain activity, and encase the brain in a low-level electromagnetic field. This will make a human appear on our network alongside the androids, appearing as a linked processor of an unknown nexus model. Then, instead of another RK800, Connor will upload himself into Lt. Anderson’s brain, at which point the nanites will detect the transfer and trigger the reverse for Lt. Anderson.

If nothing happens, then that is our answer right there: An android cannot run outside of its parts as an organic brain cannot play host to it and no switch will occur. Otherwise, you will remain displaced for six to eight hours. During this time, you can do whatever you want! Enjoy this revolutionary and unique experience! Also included in the executable is a black box that will begin recording all RK800 systems once a nexus transfer is detected. Once the nanites start to get flushed from Lt. Anderson’s brain and the signal begins to weaken, they will trigger another transfer, returning the two of you to your proper places. Finally, Connor can add any comments to the black box before sending it back to us for analysis. Depending on the outcomes of this endeavor, we may contact you again for further tests.

I understand that this is a very unexpected and personal request to make of you, but I do hope you’ll agree for the advancement of knowledge for both our species. You two are the best candidates we know of at the moment: Connor’s technology isn’t likely to become obsolete for a while, and Hank is a respected member of the city’s justice system, and your preexisting acquaintance is an incredible benefit. It would be tough to find another trustworthy pair of candidates.

Please take as much time as you need to decide. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Dr. Samira Rosen

The room fell silent. Connor scanned the email over again, committing it to memory, and played it back in his head. The faint thumping of Sumo’s tail on the carpet in the living room brought his focus back in time to realize the message and HUD had minimized and Hank was looking at him with a complex expression. (Confusion?) “Would you to hear it again?” he asked.

“Hell no. That technobabble won’t clear it up.” Hank took a long drink from his mug, still staring at Connor, as if looking for something. (Reaction expected?)

A search of the signature turned up thousands of articles and hundreds of papers. “Since Kamski’s departure, Dr. Rosen has been considered one of the brightest minds at CyberLife,” Connor explained. “To have received a notice from her is a remarkable offer to be seriously considered.”

“Oh, yeah?” The mug hit the tabletop; it would’ve spilled over it if wasn’t empty. Hank leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “An offer to what, though? To rip out my soul? To rip out your soul, just to throw them about?”

“Technically, souls haven’t been proven to exist—”

“Exactly. They don’t know, and yet they’re fine with expecting us to dive under the bus for their freakin’…Freaky Friday here.”

“Today is Satur—”

“I know what fuckin’ day it is!” Hank sank back into his chair and folded his arms, a pose more suited for long-term complaining. “It’s these pretentious scientist types, thinkin’ they can email you on a perfectly fine morning and you’d do whatever they say. Like I’d just wanna stick myself full of needles of unknown substances at the drop of a hat? Ruin my perfectly good weekend by what, having an android uploaded into my head? Fucking-A….”

Connor pursed his lips. His fingers, suddenly itching for something to do, found a rhythm to drum on the table. “Not to undermine your characteristic skepticism, Lieutenant,” he said carefully, another search already up in the corner, “but advancements in surgery have been able to successfully transplant brains within the last decade, allowing one to continue life whilst inhabiting a new body. Given that this is a non-invasive procedure and that one of the parties is non-organic, it is already leagues simpler than human brain transplants.”

Hank scoffed. “You actually think this cockamamie shit could work?”

His head dipped into a slow nod. “The logic does check out.”

“Christ, Connor, whose side are you on? It sounds like you actually wanna go through with this.”

His fingers continued their beat. Did he want to? The logic checked out, sure, and it would most likely be successful, but it was still his choice to engage…. No requirements, no direct substantial benefit to himself, just…pure choice.

The chair creaked, Hank straightening up, his glare losing its edge. “Do… Do you want to do this…?”

“I….” What would it mean if it was successful? “I don’t know….”

His attention fell to his fingers, quickening by 5 BPM. Free personal choices were becoming much more frequent in his life, but this wasn’t just a case of if he wanted coffee, or which shirt he wanted to wear, or when he wanted to take Sumo for a walk; this was asking if he wanted to put his entire being on display in a test that will start to pick apart his identity as an individual and just might discredit the existence of his species. It was a thought that wasn’t designed to be in his program.

He heard a soft sigh and more wooden creaks. A moment later, his mug was filled partway with coffee (114°F). Hank poured the rest of the pot into his own mug, returning to his seat as he did so. “Your LED is going crazy,” he commented. “Haven’t seen it that bad in a while.”

He wasn’t even sure where to start. Connor took a half second to run through the message two more times, trying to pinpoint the root of his conflictions. “I think….” Badadum badadum badadum went his fingers. He started to get lost in their rhythm, their predictability. He stopped and wrapped his hands around his mug instead (now 112°F). “Dr. Rosen specifically mentioned what happens when a Connor model dies,” he said. Saying those words now made him feel…odd. Uncomfortable. “My memory is uploaded and reinstalled in a new unit. She’s right when she said that I still think of myself as me, not the third version of Connor. That what’s really me has been transferred from those chassis to this one.”

“And isn’t that enough?”

Connor didn’t want to see what kind of expression Hank wore. “There’s a room built into my software; a garden in my head. It was part of a self-regulating program to ensure that dealing with deviants wouldn’t also compromise me. That obviously didn’t work, and I haven’t been back since it failed, but…. There’s a graveyard there. I didn’t make it, at least not consciously. It just appeared. There are only two headstones, each with the name, model, and conditions of termination for the previous two Connors. But….”

He bit his lip. “If it were true that I am them and they were me, why are they considered dead when I’m still here?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but he looked up anyway out of hope. Hank wore a neutral expression (s͢t͘rai̛n͠ed҉ - not true). “God,” he breathed, “a graveyard in your head for yourself. That’s the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But am I wrong?” He tucked his elbows into his sides and leaned over his drink, absently noting the 109°F heat source. The words spilled more quickly now: “Am I just what this system of electronics holds together? I had no problem uploading my memory before, but does that just delude me into thinking I’m the same Connor when I’m really not? That RK800 that took you hostage at the Tower had all my memories, but that wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have done that, Hank. I didn’t do that.” His program stalled, his vision glitching a few frames. “Ergo those previous RK800s weren’t actually me either….”

A hand hooked under his arm. “Up you get.”

Leaving the mug behind, Connor let Hank lead him to the living room where he was deposited onto the couch. Hank patted his legs as he dropped next to him, calling Sumo to pad across the room. “Pet the dog, Connor,” he commanded.

The order appeared as an overlay labeled PET SUMO. Connor obliged, cupping Sumo’s head in his hands and scratching behind both ears. Sumo sniffed his lap before resting his chin there. Such a simple existence, Connor thought, being pampered without a care in the world.

“I ain’t one for philosophical bullshit most of the time,” his companion mused, giving Sumo a few pats of his own. “I figure I am who I am and that’s it. I think my thoughts and Sumo loves me, so that’s all that matters, and the same goes for you. That Connor I first met may have had a different serial number, but he was a stepping stone to becoming the Connor you are now. And then that other RK800? All the substance with none of the swagger. That dick didn’t have a spark of life to be found. Your tech doesn’t define you, kid. There’s something else there.”

Connor’s hands had stilled, holding the dog’s ears. Sumo held his breath, unsure what he was waiting for, his tail beginning to sway back and forth. Instead of meeting Connor’s wide-eyed gaze, Hank smiled and ruffled his shaggy Saint Bernard’s neck. “You stopped petting Sumo,” he remarked.

“Hank…. Lieutenant, I—”

“And if you want to see for yourself without all that tech getting in the way, then…I suppose we can go get all science-y up in this bitch. ‘s not like I had any plans this weekend anyway.”

His eyebrows shot up. He turned to the side as much as he could with Sumo claiming his legs and almost stumbled over his words saying, “But this— this is a— an incredibly personal request, Lieutenant! It’s not just me, it would involve you, too, and I don’t know if I can force something like that on you just for my benefit!”

“Don’t sell your importance short.” Hank waved a hand at him, followed up by a half smirk. “And you’ve seen how many fucks I give about my health. You’d take better care of my body in a day than I have in years. Hell, it’ll be fun to hear what you have to say about the whole Human Experience, trademarked.”

Connor’s brow came back down to a furrowed state. “I didn’t know someone could trademark—”

“Just an expression, Connor. Now are you going to hurry up and get this ball rolling before I change my mind or what?”

“Wh— Right now?”

“Unless you have something else to do today.”

Not receiving any further attention from the android, Sumo left him for Hank, leaning sideways against his knees to better allow for back scratches.

Should he agree? He wanted to believe Hank, that he wasn’t defined by the machinery that kept him alive, and if he could exist outside of an android body, then that would be true. If it works, then it’s a temporary effect that will remedy itself; if it doesn’t work, then nothing happens. And he did have Hank’s approval. So… When he laid it out like that….

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.” Connor squared his shoulders, blinking open his inbox. “There are few foreseeable downsides. The results may also be quite eye-opening.” The executable was attached to the email as promised, a tiny file that took only a second to download and begin running. He detected setting changes within his nanorobot synthesis chamber, adjusting the acidity and toxicity ratings for the next 0.3cc of nanites produced by tempering their chromium and overwriting their function with new instructions. It took fifty-one seconds, after which the nanites were sent to chemical treatment to be coated, sterilized, and mixed into the required solution.

A pop-up notified him of its completion. Connor flexed his hand, protracting a small needle from his fingertip. “Which arm?” he asked.

Hank stared at him. “That…wow. How long have you had a needle in your hand?”

“It’s always been there, Lieutenant.”

“Always been there. Of course.”

“As an investigative assistant, I have many features designed for on-site forensic analysis.”

“Uh-huh.” He pulled the sleeve of his T-shirt over his shoulder even as he scoffed, “All this fancy shit, and yet you still go licking things.”

Connor rubbed a bit of alcohol from his other hand onto Hank’s arm. “It’s the most efficient way,” he clarified for not the first time, injecting the solution into his upper arm.

“Sure.” Hank fixed his sleeve, running his hand over the pinprick of blood through the fabric. “Thirty years on the force dealing with heavy narcotics, and the only time I get hit with a needle, it’s for fucking vanilla science. How long until it…happens?”

Connor wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Injections through muscular tissue take about five to ten minutes to reach the brain. It will take longer to conduct a brain scan and establish an EM field, though. I cannot be certain how long; it depends on how active the brain is at the time.”

A light bulb went off in Connor’s head, figuratively and literally. “Increased hormone production,” he announced, getting up to go put on his shoes by the front door, “should speed up the process. Activity will direct the nanites through the brain in an expedited manner.”

Hank cocked an eyebrow. “I guess that makes sense?” Sumo, curious, ambled over to Connor to sniff his shoelaces, freeing up space for Hank to prop his forearms on his knees. “Going somewhere?”  he asked.

After tying two simple knots, Connor stood and opened his hand, revealing Hank’s cellphone dangling between two fingers. “More importantly, you’re going somewhere.” And before Hank could react, he flung open the door and took off running, Sumo bolting close behind.

“Fuck— Sumo!” Tripping to the doorway, Hank scrambled to get his own shoes, just barely remembering to grab his keys before he slammed the door behind him and ran. “Connor! Don’t just go like that, he’s not licensed!”

- - - - - - - - - -

Twenty-six minutes later, Hank collapsed face-first back onto the couch, out of breath, hair matted with sweat. “Jesus Christ, Connor, don’t do that again. I don’t need him getting lost. Or another fine for an unleashed dog.”

“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Connor called from the kitchen, refilling Sumo’s water bowl, “but adrenaline production was the most easily stimulated at the time.”

“Fuckin’-A….” Hank was still trying to catch his breath, legs weak from exertion. “I’m getting too old for this. Did it work yet?”

Connor left the bowl on the floor and went to the recliner to join Hank, accessing a map through CyberLife’s network of all active androids in the area. Connor appeared at the center, a dark blue point labeled ‘RK800 #313 248 317-53 Nexus-7’ on a grid of scattered greens and teals. The colors corresponded to processor generation, so Hank should have appeared as a white ‘unknown nexus’. However, no white dot was present. “Not yet, no.”

“Superb. In that case, I’m gonna go take a shower and rethink my life.” Despite the declaration, Hank didn’t roll off the couch and shuffle to the bathroom for another twenty-two seconds.

Late morning in their neighborhood was quiet. Cars wouldn’t start passing by with any frequency until midafternoon, and they were close enough to the city that wildlife was minimal. The only noise that filled the space was the squeak of the shower and the low thrum of running water. Silence like this Connor found both comforting and somewhat restless. Fewer sensory inputs allowed him to run in a sort of low-power mode; sensory detection only accounted for up to 6.3% of his total power consumption, so it wasn’t a huge difference, but in such a busy city, it was a rare treat. And yet, he felt like he should be doing something. His finger twitched. He didn’t have a coin on him with which he could calibrate (HIGH PROBABILITY: quarter left in kitchen); there wasn’t a pen within reach, either. The twitch didn’t appear as a servo misalignment—it never did���but he always recalibrated it anyway. The error didn’t seem to have any obvious cause, it just…happened. If he were human, he’d say it was just a restless tic. But he wasn’t human. That shouldn’t happen.

Connor looked at his hands. What were humans like? Essentially just organic machines: nerves received tactile signals from the environment to send to the brain for comprehension; certain muscle groups compressed to pull others, working in tandem for full movement; light reflected off of surfaces and passed through lenses to focus on the retinas to project an image to the brain. But there had to be something more. If his tech didn’t define him, then it didn’t define any android, which also meant humans’ organic tech didn’t define them either, so where does the difference between the two lie?

He stayed lost in thought, generating disproportionally more questions than answers, until Hank returned in a different T-shirt and jeans, drying his hair with a towel with one hand and waving the other in front of Connor’s face. “Still locked in existential crisis?” he asked.

“I suppose.” Not wanting to worry Hank again with his musings, he checked the map. The cached image appeared first before updating with the latest information, moving a couple dots and, most importantly, adding a bright white one in the center. “Looks like it’s working now.”

“Fan. Tastic. Don’t feel a thing. And how long will this last?”

“Six to eight hours.”

“Mmmalright. M’kay. Alright.” He draped the towel over his head and gave it one last fierce tousle. Then with a sigh, he threw it over the back of the couch and said, “Might as well get this over with while there’s still daylight.”

Connor shifted in his seat. “And you’re still sure you want to do this?”

“Kid,” —Hank returned to the couch for the third time that morning— “I’ve done dumber things for less of a reason before.”

Connor blinked. “I’m…not sure if I fully believe you, Lieutenant.”

“Just be glad you didn’t go to college.”

His interest was piqued, but he knew if he digressed the topic now, he’d find a way to talk himself out of continuing the experiment. “Well. I wish I could say this won’t hurt, but I honestly don’t know.”

Hank leaned back and opened his arms, palms upturned in an implied ‘this might as well happen’ shrug.

“Alright….” Connor felt restless again, only not just in his hands. He was anxious to find out what would happen, but at the same time, he debated leaving Schrödinger’s cat as is. If it doesn’t work, then what? He’s just circuitry? He gripped the armrest and hid the world under the android map. “I…just need to access the right unit through CyberLife’s network…,” he narrated. No turning back now. Selecting the white point ran his permissions before clearing access to the control panel. Buried near the bottom of the list was ‘Upload,’ with two simple fields he filled out with a thought:

Destination: \\:C

Origin: \\cnet\313248317_53\:C

[Upload data]

Uploading data to another unit will move all data, transferring access from current unit. Only one unit may be active with these permissions at a time to prevent network overwrite. [Proceed]        Cancel

Warning: Destination is currently active. [Proceed]        Cancel

Caution: Destination is detected as an unknown nexus model and may not be able to run all transferred program(s). Proceed           Cancel

“…And upload.”

His HUD closed, all background processes saving and stopping. His body stiffened and lost feeling as motor controls and tactile responses shut down. His optics turned off before his eyes fully closed. His audio processor stopped, the buzzing aftereffect of residual noise quickly fading out. A system sweep catalogued and packaged all data to be sent as he felt a click—

[next >]