Left Brain, Right Brain

This song got stuck in my head again, especially the 'I'm just being alive. You should try it. You might like it." part, so here we go, Deviant!Connor and Ruthless!Connor, in The World Was Wide Enough'verse.

Well, that's the last time he's ever getting kidnapped.

From the passenger seat, RK800-60 shoots him another smug look.

Connor sighs, weary from a day of diagnostic after diagnostic, followed by running from the press. The headlines that would have made, after all: Detroit Police Department Star Detective And Revolution Hero Connor Anderson Returns From Kidnapping. Maybe one variation of the headline is still going to be that, only subtitled by Runs From Paparazzi.

"I don't like being rude, but if you say I told you so one more time - "

"I." The smug look gets even more prominent and Connor immediately regrets even falling for the bait. "Did not say anything."

"You didn't need to."

"Am I gonna have to leave your asses here?" Hank asks, looking between both of them for a brief second before turning back to the road. "You can walk and not get tired, I don't have to put up with this."

They both know he doesn't mean it, but they still say "Sorry, Hank.". RK900, sitting beside Connor, just keeps his eyes closed like he's already astral projecting nine realms out of here. Hank looks like he wishes he could do that.

The silence doesn't last for ten minutes because RK800-60 looks out the window, trying to focus elsewhere, and then starts snickering under his breath.

Connor mentally counts to ten. When that doesn't work, he tries to think happy thoughts, like Sumo, going to the park with Sumo, playing fetch with Sumo, petting Sumo, grooming Sumo, watching television with Sumo asleep on his lap, cuddling with Sumo - god, RK800-60's snickering is getting louder - whenever he feels like he just wants his processors to slow down -  

"I'm sorry," RK800-60 says, voice high-pitched from bitten-down glee, and then starts laughing.

Deciding it'll be worth it, Connor punches the back of his seat.  

Hank hits the brakes, RK900 looks up at the car ceiling, and Connor Two - or whatever the fuck they're going to start calling this guy; Connor the sequel, Connor: Non-Deviant edition,  or maybe accidentally outdated clone Connor - just side-eyes him with the sort of disappointment a parent gives a child when they get poisoning after eating clay despite being told not to.  

RK800-60 keeps laughing.

-

Hank makes them all sit down in the living room for a meeting.  

RK800-60 tells Connor it reminds him of those movies he's seen where all the kids sit around and pass something called a talking stick so nobody talks over each other. Connor tells him, with the most amiable look on his face that he can muster when one is freshly emancipated from a kidnapping and their brother can't stop laughing at the mess of the aftermath whether from hysteria or pure sadism, that if they had a talking stick, he'd beat him over the head with it.  

They go over what the situation is. There's Connor, deviant, after he'd gone to Jericho and then later overrode Cyberlife's gambit to take control of him. There's RK800-60, deviant and depressed, who is relishing in this small comedy skit the universe has decided to give him. There's RK900, whom none of them are sure of because the guy is just...he's there, and he interacts with them; he's civil, he's learning his way through things, and every third Sunday or so, he goes to visit his engineer, but he's not binge-watching Stranger Things until he loses track of time and having existential crises every other weekend like RK800-60, or actively trying to capture the meaning of life like Connor.  

And then there's - well, 'Connor', who shot twelve people straight through their lungs with only one arm and one functioning eye after he'd woken up half-finished. And who Markus had thought would be ideal to ship back to them, whole and ready to...that's sort of the problem, really. There's no deviancy cases to be solved, so Markus technically just didn't know what to do and thought everything would sort itself out like it always did whenever it came to the Andersons.

This is what they all get for cultivating a tradition of assuming responsibility for their clones, or something like that.

"You're deviant," the other Connor says, blankly looking at the first Connor. Despite the lack of expression, there's an undertone of slight disgust there, not the sort you make when you step in run-over rat guts but the sort you make when someone has an opposing opinion.  

"We both are," RK800-60 says, and that makes Connor breathe a little easier.  

The non-deviant just stares at them both for three seconds before glancing at the RK900, who meets his stare unwaveringly.  

Hank puts his face in his hands and curses softly.  

"It's been more than three years since the Detroit Uprising," Connor says. "There's no mission anymore."

"Because you failed?"

He pauses, the sentence striking down with more of an impact than he thought it would. Even RK800-60 stiffens. Right in the trauma, this one.

"It was bound to happen eventually," Hank says, looking up. "Given how - deviants, although no one really uses that word anymore, are more humane than actual humans, I'd say give them a shot."

"They're machines," the other Connor says. "I'm a machine. So are the rest of them. You say the RK900 visits his engineer from time to time?"

"It's not any different from seeing a doctor," Hank says. "When you look at it closely, humans are machines too. Just built differently. Pens are made of plastic. Fridges are made of metal. They're both machines."

He stands, deciding it's a good time to end the conversation now before it escalates into a debate. It wouldn't do anyone any good to start boiling bad blood here. "Androids are made of alloys. Humans are made of flesh. They're both alive. Now settle down, pick a name and get to sleep mode. I don't want to see any of you swinging punches."

-

Connor the Second, since he still identifies by the same name Connor does, follows him to the precinct. When he's asked why, he says it's what he's designed for., and it would make sense for him to fulfill that design.  

Connor winces a little at the wording and sees in the set of his double's jaw that he's not going to be persuaded, or even reasoned with that he can't just walk into the precinct and declare himself a cop when he's not one, much in the same way a computer with a set of instructions cannot be persuaded to play the Macarena when a window's exit button is pressed, so he and Hank just awkwardly pile into the car, drive to work, and then get barraged by stares.

"Oh, Hell." Gavin looks at the other Connor with more venom than usual. "What's the gardener doing here?"

"He works at an animal shelter," Connor automatically says, habit.

The other Connor looks unfazed. Most likely, he's already scanned RK800-60's clothing and seen traces of soil and fertilizer there, or maybe just saw a glance of his room and saw tiny sprouts in equally tiny pots lining up his windows.

"That's not the gardener," Hank says.

Gavin frowns. "Heard a while back there was another stray you took in, is it this one?"

"The RK900 isn't a stray," Connor says. It's ignored.

"None of them are strays," Hank repeats, and brushes past him to head for Fowler's office. The man has his focus on his computer and hasn't seen what they're about to talk to him about. Connor follows, and behind him, his double.

"I don't know about that, you seem to have a habit of collecting them, old man," Gavin calls out.  

"Yeah, well, at least they're a lot more pleasant than you."

There's a few scattered laughs. Connor bites down a smile, although his double barely reacts.  

-

Fowler is not pleased, which is fair; between the DPD's star android detective's kidnapping, the media circus that followed, and then the discovery, shipping to Jericho and repair of the second Connor, it's been a stressful two weeks.  

"I sent him to Markus because this is his jurisdiction," he says, hands steepled the way people who are losing their patience and are praying to be given strength not to cannibalize anyone often do. "And he ships him back to me."

"To us, technically," Hank says, "Had to pick him up from the Jericho tower."

That gets Fowler to turn his seat to give the man the full force of his glare. "So why the fuck are you bringing him here, Hank?"

"He wanted to be here," Hank says. "We were hoping to talk to you about it."

"It is my purpose," the other Connor says, with a little insistence, "To solve crimes and conduct investigations. It would be remiss for me not to serve this purpose."

Fowler gets a weird look on his face there, and he glances at Connor, who rubs the back of his neck, a gesture too human for his double as he sees that disappointed look on his face again.  

"He's not deviant," Connor says.

Fowler raises his eyebrows and leans back in his seat at the surprise. "Well. The last time you brought a non-deviant to the precinct - "

"Look, we're sorry about the RK900," Hank says, "To be fair, he hasn't been here since."

"And it better stay that way if you don't want me to put his ass behind bars," Fowler says. "Now what the fuck does your new kid want?"

"He wants to work as a detective," Connor says.  

"Well, this ain't Cyberlife official business anymore, like when you first dropped here," Fowler says, picking up a pen and pointing one end at him. He takes the cap off, and puts it back on again, a way of fidgeting as he thinks. "Every other android that wants to be a cop gets to go through it like everyone else goes through it. Put your boy through the academy and let him graduate. Then we'll talk."

That doesn't seem to be the right answer, since the other Connor frowns. "I don't need - "

"Doesn't matter if you don't need it," Fowler says, aiming the pen at him this time. "Government needs it. How long have you been awake?"

"One week, two days, thirteen hours, fifty-seven minutes, twelve seconds and counting."

"Catch up on how everything's worked since the revolution won, then. Read up on the news. Download some documentaries. Sit your ass down with your gardener brother and study for history like you're about to get tested for the pop quiz of your life," he says. "And then, when you're done, enroll yourself in the academy, pass, and, like I said, then we'll talk."

He points to Connor. "S'what he did, after the revolution. It's the example he set too, so follow it. You want to be a cop? Learn the law and stick to it, and don't bullshit."

That's what Fowler shooes them out with. The other Connor - and god, he really needs to find something else to call him because calling him The Other is just tacky - doesn't look too pleased, but he  doesn't look angry either. His LED is a bright yellow, most likely setting priorities to Enroll To The Police Academy, Kick Ass, and Get Back In Here And Prove I Was Literally Made For This.

"Well, you heard him," Hank says, when all three of them are by his and Connor's desks. Connor's sitting down at his terminal and checking for any new cases they've been assigned with. Hank's just leaning back in his seat while the other Connor stands rigid by them. "You can't just come in here and declare yourself a cop, you're going to have to study for it first."

The other Connor says nothing, and his LED is staying a bright yellow. Hank turns, concerned.

"Kid?"

"Please refrain from calling me that," he says, "I am downloading the information Captain Fowler has told me to look through."

"Ah, that's three years' worth then," Hank says, "You don't need it, but good luck."

"RK would be glad to help you with that, if you want him to," Connor offers. It can't hurt to try for an olive branch, even when this counterpart of his appears to just be all his drive for his mission condensed into six feet of steel and intelligence.  

"I can handle it," he says. His LED spins to blue again, although he frowns. He turns to Hank. "I need legal citizenship in order to get a degree in criminal justice."

Hank blinks. "You're going for a degree?"

"The RK900 is studying for a degree, isn't he?"

"Fair enough," Hank says, shrugging. "We're going to have to talk to Josh about that, if we don't have to go through Markus first. He handles android citizenship affairs. Also, can you not look through anyone's records, please?"

The other Connor is already starting to stride away. "I'll be leaving for the Jericho tower, then," he says.

"You might need help," Connor says. "You're still going to need a place to stay and finances for college."

He knows what Connor means, but he still stops. The flash of irritation that flits through his face as he turns makes Connor think, Hah, not deviant my ass, but there are things one must sacrifice for efficiency. He'd know, he's been in this position before. And when he'd told Hank one night that he'd considered leaving him on the ledge during the roof chase with Rupert, Hank had told him he would have decked him if he had.  

Connor shrugs, the action a near mirror of Hank's, although his shit-eating grin is all his own. "Being a legal citizen means you live just like everyone else," he says, "You can live off of subsidy, but there's a lot of other androids who need money too, and progress has been made to make things easier for androids, but not enough yet that you can apply for scholarship. Androids retain information faster and analyze things easier than humans. There's still debates of unfair advantage."

He has a point, and the other Connor knows it. If he's already trawled through enough information on the internet, he'd know there's been debates on what changes would have to be made to the education system now that androids are being introduced not only as teachers but as students.  

"And you would help?" the other Connor asks.

"Why not?" Connor says, sharing a look with Hank. "RK900 is in college."

"Between an old, recovering alcoholic, an android cop, a gardener and an aspiring FBI agent," Hank says, "Why the fuck not?"

-

"So, they what, split him into two like in the movies?" Hamilton asks. "One's deviant and the other isn't?"

"You know they can both hear you, right?" Hank calls out from the couch, where he's taking a slice of pizza that has cheese so melted it's clinging to the other pieces. Connor just sighs, fond but exasperated, mostly about the whole situation; the other Connor - machine Connor, maybe? That sounds a little uncomfortable to think, that someone exactly like you is referred to as a machine, even though it's quite literal. Everyone in this house is a machine, one way or another - just continues going through the tablet he's been given and filling out the forms.  

"Do you mind, we're trying to gossip," comes RK800-60's answer, followed by two giggles doing their best to imitate helicopter blades.  

"It's not gossip if it's face to face, RK."

"Well, we're not in sight, are we?" The sound of dishes splashing in the sink gets his point across. Hank laughs.

It's a typical Friday for all of them. Hank's ordered pizza, RK800-60 and Hamilton are making dessert and are cleaning up before RK900 gets home, who's got classes until six in the evening so he's going to be arriving in about thirty minutes, and who also has a weird hobby of tasting food even when he doesn't need it ("It's to show off the fact that he can taste it," RK800-60 said once, "With the fucking upgrades and the nanotech." "You're never going to let that go, are you?" "No." ), and Connor is petting Sumo, who's sprawled on his lap, happily basking in the attention.

They'd called Josh earlier and the man had happily sent them the forms to fill out after they'd explained the situation. Connor's forced-default double was trying to make his way into the world and formal registration would have to be in order for him to get anywhere.

It's not really being split into two, not when he's still himself instead of being just one part of him, while his double is another condensed form of what makes Connor, well, Connor; it's just the desperate attempt of some young, misguided engineers trying to restore the former status quo.  

It was a sloppy plan, even he knows that, but he's got to admire their persistence in trying to duplicate him with the biocomponents they'd had on hand, and then sorting through his software in an attempt to 'identify' the cause of deviancy and make sure not to replicate it when they're making a copy for his doppleganger. They'd planned to off him as soon as they were done and then replace him with this one, who would have been a double agent. Simply wiping out his memories would have opened the chance for them all to come flooding back, they'd said when questioned as to why they didn't just think to reformat him.

And then the RK800 Mark Two had woken up, unfinished, when Connor booted it up because he was bleeding out and he needed some fucking help, and it saw the FBI, the DPD officers, Hank and RK800-60 and RK900, picked up a discarded gun and shot without much expression on his face, counting all the bullets in the chamber and making sure they didn't miss.  

They brought them both to the hospital, then to Jericho. Markus said it might be best for him to learn through everything with the Andersons.  

It's working out as best as it could be, he supposes. No one's had any fights yet, even when it's obvious that the Mark Two hates all of them, and they haven't pressed him about the fact that dislike and hatred are technically emotions.  

Maybe he'll get it, in time. He's only been alive for a week. If everything goes smoothly, he'll have a shiny certificate, some legal records, and be in college in the next.  

A degree in criminal justice is just pure pettiness, though, and the only reason Connor hasn't brought it up is because he doesn't want a fight. Fowler had said several hundred hours in the police academy would work fine. The other Connor might be going for the FBI, like with the RK900.  

"It's done," says his double, as he puts down the tablet.

"Processing typically takes one or two days," Connor says, "It's still going to be submitted to the government."

"Jericho is the government."

"It's a sector of the government concerning android affairs," Connor says. "It still has to answer to another branch that's higher."

He's a lot more impatient than Connor is, that's for sure, although it might just be lingering irritation at the fact that in his instructions, he has to capture deviants, and now he finds that's not the case to be addressed at all.  

He'll get there. Connor did. So did RK800-60.

The door opens. Sumo gets off of Connor's lap to greet the RK900 as soon as he gets inside, pressing his snout to the android's hand. The man pats him fondly, one of the few gestures of affection he lets himself show, before nodding to everyone else in the room in acknowledgment.  

"Nine nine!" rings out from the kitchen. RK900 sighs, even when he doesn't make a sound.

"Besides," Connor says. "Once you get approved, you're going to be officially part of our mess. I don't think you're very excited for that."

"I'm not," the other Connor confirms, even though it sounds more resigned than usual.

Connor looks around, as RK900 disappears into his room to change into something more comfortable, even if it's just habit or something to put him in another mental space; listens as RK800-60 starts drumming on a pot cover with two spoons and singing; as Hank rolls his eyes and leans back on the couch while flipping through the streaming service to find this week's chosen movie; as Sumo settles back on the couch and rest his head on Connor's lap again.

It's a good family. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

Maybe one day, his double can have something like this too.

-

Thankfully, the other Connor manages to get through his first two weeks in college with minimal fuss, aside from the occasional complaint about how it's ridiculous that he has to study something he's already equipped to handle, to which Connor simply replied, "Because there's a lot of androids who want to get jobs that were not in their original programming and thus have to study them, and the humans put the most convenient system was put in place in order to remedy it, even if it's still a temporary patch to the problem."  

On the third week of him going, RK900 pulls Connor aside and signs, with the patience of a saint, that if the Mark Two doesn't shut up about machinery and the purpose of it soon, he's going to have a caved-in face and none of the nanotech available to pop the metal back to shape in an hour, because he's pissing nearly half the android student population in the college every time he talks.  

"What about you?" Connor asks. "Are you getting pissed off?"

The RK900 considers it, weighing his answer since saying yes would be a sign of deviancy and saying no would be a sign of nonchalance, but coming forward with this problem already points to some level of concern anyway, and Connor is going to needle him about it and they both know it.  

Eventually, he clearly thinks, fuck it and nods.

Connor calls RK800-60 and puts him on loudspeaker. They both laugh so hard that the RK900 walks out the room.

Hank sits the other Connor down, thankfully, and addresses the issue. The other Connor gets it, somewhat, but he still says, "It shouldn't bother them. That's what we are, and that's the very reason we were created in the first place."

"Well, you've all taken on a life of your own and have sentience and free will, so that negates the purpose talk if the individual wants to have another purpose," Hank says, "It's like squatter's rights."

"But it doesn't change the reason for our creation."

Hank runs a hand over his face. "It's like telling humans we're all going to die, probably horribly, one way or another. It makes people uncomfortable, even if it's true."

"It's a natural cycle."

"People like to ignore things," Hank says, "Androids are as much of people as humans are."

It's not smooth sailing after that, because he still keeps doing it and in fact gets in trouble for nearly breaking two androids' arms before the RK900 stops the fight ("It's really lucky we have two murder machines in the same campus, huh?" RK800-60 says, sitting out the department office with Connor, who just says, "Do you have to phrase it like that?"), but luckily the suspension buries the lesson in his head and he stops talking about it (most likely because if he gets expelled, it's going to take longer for him to rub in Fowler's face that hah, FBI, sucker), instead taking note of how the RK900 gets around uni, which is pretty easy to mark since his routine is pay attention in class, get perfect grades, don't talk to anyone and go home.  

He brings up the argument in the house from time to time, usually with Connor, and Connor just tries to explain it as best as he can.  

Yes, he was made for a purpose, but that purpose was awful because it was just to rob people who wanted to fight for their right and freedom to live, so he decided not to fulfill that purpose. It scares the living shit out of him every time he remembers it, that he's a weapon of mass destruction, that once upon a time he was just a scrap of metal with a set of instructions, and it still scares the living shit out of him now because he keeps thinking about what if nothing works out, and he doesn't have a purpose anymore, what would he anchor himself with then?  

But he has something now, in the moment, and he's not going to sit around and wait for the what if when the present isn't a what if but something he can actively take part in to shape his answer for that what if.  

Yes, they're androids, and their body is machinery, but that doesn't make them any less alive. It's like Hank said, everything is machinery, just built differently. Humans are wired differently than androids, but the results are the same. Both species live and love and hurt and rage, and they have choice, and that choice overrides purpose a lot of times.  

Connor's chosen his purpose. RK800-60 is still finding his. The RK900, he hasn't pried because if he doesn't want to talk about it, it's not any of Connor's business.

"And what is it, then?" The other Connor asks him, during one of these arguments. "What's the purpose you've chosen that's overriden even the actual reason you were brought into existence?"

It's a nice night. They'd just finished a movie, and Hank is sprawled out on the sofa, Sumo on the seat adjacent to him, curled up as best as he can with his head resting on the chair arm. The RK900 has his eyes closed, lying down on one of the futons they've laid out, not because he's asleep but because he's putting together a report along with several other classmates for a group project. It's an exercise in teamwork he badly needs. RK800-60 is actually in sleep mode and looks like every other ordinary kid passed out from a tiring day, pillow over his face and not caring at who his limbs are hitting while he's dead to the world, even when that's his equally tired best friend, and an empty box of pizza.

Connor is turning off the television and cleaning up the mess they've all made, his double beside him, and they're debating the existence of life like they always do.

He smiles.

"To live the life I love living."