Someday, someday chapter two

It's been a while since I uploaded the next chapter of this, but, yay, we're continuing our writing warm-ups.

ii.

He has to tell them, so he does, although he expects to be yelled at the whole time. Thankfully, Connor just shakes his head and looks amused while Hank mutters, “Of course you went into a locked room and snooped around. Of course.”

They all agree on calling Markus, seeing as the man is probably the one  responsible for awakening the RK900, so maybe he can help them with their situation, which – they don't really know what their situation is. RK900 has stopped answering their questions after he told them he remembered RK800-60 and the humans, and neither RK800 is going to probe his memories as that was a huge breach of privacy and that left a sour taste in their mouths.

Surprisingly, Markus doesn't know an RK900, which leads to RK800-60 sitting and answering the call with his face in his hands and explaining, while Connor finishes up fixing Hamilton's front door before her parents come home.

“You must have been the one to wake him up,” Markus says, “The storage case was already empty when we checked the room.”

That just makes RK800-60 want to scream into his hands, which is, well, admittedly funny, when he gets two hours to think it over after. Hank's snickering at him, sitting across him on the couch, while in one corner of the room – still within RK800-60’s line of sight, of course - RK900 is watching Hamilton as she signs at him, attempting to start a conversation but not succeeding.

“Maybe he just came here because you were the only thing he remembered,” the old man says, “And honestly, I don't blame him. If I woke up and all I remembered was bits and pieces of someone else's memories, I'd try to find them and try to piece what I could.”

“Yeah, but - ” RK800-60 motions with his hand, gives up, and then huffs out a sigh.  

Connor pats his shoulder, sympathetic. “At least we've sorted out why he's here.”

“Have we?”

“He appears to be lost,” Connor says, “And from what Markus said, it's possible you woke him up, and he's confused and he's just trying to make sense of everything using what spotty memories he has.”

They glance at him for a moment. He's pointing to his model code and serial number, and in response, Hamilton laughs and fingerspells her name.  

“What do we do?' RK800-60 asks.

“We could interface with him, show him our memories,” Connor says.

RK800-60 immediately shakes his head. “No, show him your memories,” he says. If there's any chance of RK900 seeing his memories and...somehow taking on his problems just from experiencing them secondhand, he's not risking it. He's not cursing anyone with his hellish processing malfunctions.

He stiffens for a moment when he realizes that if RK900 is feeling things right now and is overwhelmed but is just too good at hiding it, it's his fault.  

He almost tells Connor that this is a bad idea, but then again, if RK900's here because he's confused by spotty memories and he’s trying to track down what he can clearly make out of them in an attempt to find out more, this might be a way to clarify what he's seen, and then he can move on and start to build a life for himself.

Except RK800-60 knows it's not really that simple.

“It's worth a try, I suppose,” Connor says. He glances at RK800-60 for a moment, waiting for him to say something, and after a minute, RK800-60 nods. Might as well.  

“I guess, yeah,” he says. “Hank?”

Hank shrugs. “We can try asking him again, and then you can offer to interface.”

Connor nods, and then walks over to where RK900 is, asking to talk for a bit, which Hamilton takes as a cue to check if her front door is in working order.

RK800-60 watches silently as the two androids converse, and for several minutes, RK900 just blankly watches as Connor signs, but eventually he starts responding. He doesn't have a name as he wasn't given one, he is a prototype, and an unfinished one at that, and he's here because his memories end in the engineering lab and then suddenly, he'd seeing RK800-60's memories, and he needed some place to start his search.

Search for what? Connor asks, raising an eyebrow.

Search for who, RK900 corrects. My engineer.

Connor pauses. He glances at RK800-60 and Hank, and then back to RK900. Why is that?

I am a prototype, RK900 signs, If I am damaged, I have no way of being repaired. All  my biocomponents are customized only for me. I am not compatible with any pre-existing parts.

“Oh,” Hank says, running a hand through his hair. “That's – that's fair, I guess.”

Do you not remember who your engineer is? Connor asks. Are you not able to access their records, perhaps? Has Cyberlife wiped their records?

I am unfortunately unfinished, and that means my memory storage has been faulty. RK900 pauses, and a brief look of irritation passes his face. I recall we had a test for multiple storage boards, before my current one was left in my model and I was put on stand by.

Do you remember when this was?

November 12, 2038.

Put on standby because of the revolution, RK800-60 notes. No, put on standby because the revolution had won and the president had announced that all efforts to curb it was to be put on hold until further notice.

Now is further notice. And here is an android whose development was stopped, and who wanted to have security in his own existence. Self-serving, but fair.  

How faulty is your memory? Connor asks.

It is currently functional. I am able to retain footage from the time I have awoken until present moment, however, as my storage board is limited, I have to discard unimportant footage from time to time. Another pause. My memory of the laboratory, however, has sizeable parts missing.

From swapping out storage boards?

Yes.

“Emotional memory is often retained,” RK800-60 finds himself saying.  

RK900 turns to him. I am not deviant. I do not have emotional memory.

RK800-60 stops. Good for him. “O...kay, I guess.”

Connor taps his arm softly to get his attention. And you came here because your clearest memory was RK's.  

RK900 nods. It was a place to start. When I awoke, Cyberlife's records had already been disposed of. Everything was being cleared out to make space for the androids moving in.

“You'd probably need to find, like, I don't know. Chloe. Or Kamski, again,” Hank says, “Or at least someone who worked as a secretary for Cyberlife. I know privacy policies changed over the years and employee records have been under extreme lock and key, so I'm not even surprised they didn't leave records behind when they moved out. Cyberlife employees were valuable national assets up until the revolution, considering the company also developed androids as military weapons.”

“Can't spill secrets,” RK800-60 mutters, “And can't spill anything about whether or not Cyberlife collected information on its customers and sold it to other companies either.”

“Place must have had a hell of an NDA,” Hank says. “Imagine how tight it was on engineers. Especially, uh.” He motions to RK900. “Ones for prototype detective androids. Probably buried records of the smartest of their crew six feet underneath.”

I need to find my engineer. RK900 signs, this time a bit more forcefully and with a look of annoyance. They are the only one capable of manufacturing my biocomponents.  

“They can't manufacture your parts by hand,” Hank points out.

RK900 is silent for a moment. They will have blueprints. Or they will remember. And then he stands and walks out of the room, like he has anywhere else to go in the house. RK800-60 keeps an eye on him as he disappears into the kitchen.

Hank snickers. “I'm not deviant, my ass.”

RK800-60 presses his lips together, thinking. He shares a look with Connor, and his predecessor nods at him before turning to where RK900 has disappeared.

For someone whose memory of the lab was missing huge chunks to the point where he couldn't remember his engineer's face, he'd been very sure that he only had one engineer.

-

They can’t have him stay over the Hamilton’s, so they have to drag him back to the house. Hank grumbles something about collecting Connors, to which RK800-60 huffs very pointedly at, while RK900 just reminds the old man that he has no name as he never had the time to be given one. RK800-60 is sure he knows that Hank hadn’t been serious, but is being a smartass about it anyway, and he reiterates – I’m not deviant, his ass.

The three of them don’t really need to sleep, although he and Connor have fallen into the habit of going into standby every night, mostly because boredom can be too much if they stay up late (and also RK800-60 has remembered the fun fact that in about a century and a half, his battery’s going to run out, so he’s going to die and it would be best if he started conserving power now, and he’d had a panic attack about that thought – that had been a fun thing to learn, that androids could get panic attacks, and that the thought of death, however far off it was, scared the hell out of him), but with RK900 around, there’s a possibility they both might need to stay up for the night.

Thankfully, the concern seems to not be a big deal, as, when Hank turns in for the night, RK900 just goes to stand in the corner of the room to put himself on standby. The LEDs on his jacket slowly dim, and RK800-60 has to wonder if those are directly connected to him. Maybe his clothes are nanotech too. That would be useful, certainly, and an extra advantage if the situation called for it.

Lucky guy with an eccentric engineer.

He’s awake before all of them the next morning, but all he does is wait in the same corner he’d spent the whole night, and RK800-60 doesn’t blame Hank when he says that he thinks it’s creepy.  

“The sooner we help him find his engineer, the better,” the old man says, and then turns to RK900 to wave a hand, “No offense. It’s just kinda disturbing seeing you stand there and stare at all of us.”

None taken, RK900 signs. I am not capable of feeling offense.

Hank hits Connor’s arm with the back of his hand and snorts. “Exactly like you were before, huh?”

“I like to think I had a better grasp at social cues, Hank.”

Hank just laughs.

RK800-60 meanwhile, stares back at RK900, and watches as he observes the room. He’s most likely scanning it, pinpointing things and running them through every database he can access. Judging from the barely-noticeable expansion of his pupils as he stares at some things, his optical units can probably zoom in, which is weird to think about but in the context of being an investigative model, makes sense.

He’s still bitter about the repair system.  

“Do you have any place to start on, at all?” Hank asks, stabbing the pancakes RK800-60 had made him that morning. The man’s not really a big breakfast guy, but he is trying not to skip meals as it worries Connor a lot. “Aside from tracking down RK.”

RK800-60 holds his tongue on asking not be called that. It’s not like he actually does have a name he’s decided on. That feels too official. Too...solid; too much of a cornerstone on his identity.

And honestly, he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet, but no one’s going to know.  

I’ve been looking up information on you since I have had confirmation on who you all are, RK900 signs, and ignores Hank’s little cough of, “Creepy.” I know that you mostly work with the Detroit Police Department.

“I work in an animal shelter,” RK800-60 automatically says. When RK900 turns to him, just as expressionless as always, he just raises a finger slowly to emphasize a point. “I just resent that. Animal shelter. Sometimes Ham’s aunt’s flower shop.”

“Why do you hate the police department so much?” Connor asks.

“I don’t.”

“Resent?”

“I - ” He pauses. “Okay, you got me there, I set myself up for that. Hank, help.”

Hank shrugs. “Fuck cops?”

“Good enough.”

Connor sighs. “I’m serious, RK.”

“We’re getting derailed,” RK800-60 says, and turns to RK900 to flap a hand at him. “Continue.”

RK900 thankfully does. I thought your affiliation with the law enforcement would be useful in tracking down my engineer.

“Can’t you look them up?” Hank asks.  

My memory is defective, RK900 signs, I cannot form a clear picture of their appearance to be able to do proper research.

“Uh.” Hank thinks for a second, frowning a little in concentration. “Vague recall of how they look like so we can make a sketch?”

Had I been capable of that, I would have pieced their image together myself and looked for them.

“Okay, sasscrack, you want help, you tone it down,” Hank says, “You’re telling me you know you had an engineer, you’re looking for them, but you have...zero actual recall on what they look like and how to find them?”

Yes.

“But you’re positive you weren’t put together by a bot or anything?”

Yes.

“Uh-huh.” Hank takes a bite out his pancakes first, swallows, drinks some orange juice, and then winces at the taste since he’d accidentally brushed his teeth out of his usual no-breakfast-straight-to-work habit that he’s currently trying to break. “Are you lying?”

I have no reason to.

“You sure sound like you’re lying. A lot of stuff doesn’t add up,” Hank says. “You’re sure you had an engineer – just one, or a team?”

I remember there was one, RK900 says, However, as my memory is faulty, it is possible there were multiple people.

“But your memory defect didn’t affect the like, vague impression, that you had an engineer?” Hank asks.

RK900 nods. Yes, he signs again, And other than that – RK models, at least the prototypes, are never machine-made.

“Fair enough,” Hank says, “What else do you have to support this theory?”

My laboratory only had one chair.

Hank pauses at that, and then turns to RK800-60.

“He’s...right, the laboratory did only have one chair around its table, and it looked like it was custom-built for only one engineer. It looked like it also functioned as an office,” RK800-60 says. “Although it’s possible they had assistants and they could have only been the leader.”

Without offering other people places to rest on as well? RK900 signs.

RK800-60 shrugs. “There’s a lot of things that could have happened as an explanation for your engineer.” He snaps his fingers as he remembers something. “Wait – have you seen the contents of the other storage cases?”

No, RK900 says, They were already cleaned out by the time I woke up. I believe I was supposed to be collected next, but I walked out. I did, however, see pieces from your memories.

“So you woke up after they cleaned the room?” Hank asks.

Yes.

“Were you awake before that?”

For a little while, yes. I decided to wait, going through my records, until I noticed I was missing several things.

Hank raises an eyebrow.

RK900 motions towards RK800-60. Model RK800, serial number 313 248 317-60, entered the room on the last day that the Cyberlife employees were cleaning up, and the day that the androids were moving in. He interfaced with me absentmindedly –  

“I was curious, thought I caught it in time.”

- and I saw his memories. I woke up a while later. I heard the humans cleaning the place out. I heard them talking about moving me out, or letting me stay in and let the android who would use the office find me. I decided I didn’t have time for that, since I had noticed my situation of having no back-up body parts due to having no engineer. I walked out when they were taking the other items away.

“And the building’s security footage?” Hank asks.  

Deleted.

Hank throws his head back and laughs suddenly. RK900 actually frowns, like he’s offended.  

“Okay,” Hank says, when he’s calmed down a little. “Let me get this straight – you’re scared of dying, you don’t like socializing, you’re paranoid, and I’m pretty sure you do have emotional memory...and you still say you’re not a deviant?”

I am not, RK900 says, I am a machine. If I see it fit to maintain and preserve my equipment, there are plenty of computers outfitted with anti-viruses to make sure their systems stay unaffected and functioning.  

“Because computers serve a purpose for whoever uses them, and whatever data that is stored there is going to get corrupted,” Hank says, “An independent computer who just sees it fit to stay functioning? That’s called preservation instinct.”

All things have that, RK900 says, Even things that have no brains or the complex systems that are usually attributed to generating emotions. Self-preservation is something all things have.  

“Except you’re not bacteria or a jellyfish,” Hank says, “Why delete all the footage in Cyberlife?”

I did not want to be inconvenienced. I needed to move fast.

“You didn’t want to be found out,” Hank says, “Can still be paranoia. You want to find your engineer to make sure you stay kicking. That can be fear of death. You remember someone despite not having clear footage or whatever of them in your memories. That means they left an impression on you. That’s emotional memory.”  

RK900 stares him down for a moment. Hank matches it, and then he looks like he’s realizing something.

“You may not be a deviant,” he says, “But do you want to be, do you want to be finished and to feel – is that why you’re looking for your engineer?”

RK900 ‘s expression shuts off to a blank one again. He just inclines his head, signs No, and then walks out the room.

All three of them watch him in awkward silence until RK800-60 breaks it.  

“I think you pissed him off.”