Someday, someday: chapter 1

This is very, very experimental, but I thought it would fun anyway.  Set in 'The World Was Wide Enough' AU. RK900 finally shows up.

It is a rainy Friday afternoon. It's been raining a lot in the city recently, which is alright as Hamilton gets to stay in with cold weather, but it's also a bit of a downer because that means horrid traffic, and horrid traffic means the Andersons will be later for the usual movie marathon, or might even cancel. Which is a shame – everyone had recommended a stellar lineup of movies for tonight (Hank said one thing and it was Shrek) and they were all looking forward to passing out to them.

But, they could always reschedule. With any luck, classes will be declared suspended with how strong the storm is raging, and they'd all end up with a free week on their hands...or Hamilton and RK800-60 would. Connor and Hank would still have work.  

When are teleporters going to be released publicly? Stupid rich people and their being first in line to new technology.

It is with this (kinda) grim thought that Hamilton takes out one of the tubs of ice cream she's been saving for the night. She shakes her head dramatically, a theatre kid through and through, before she sits herself on her couch trying to find something good on Netflix, and then settling for the classic Happy Tree Friends as she eats her ice cream straight from the carton.

She's seven episodes in, and has already devoured a fourth of her ice cream, when she hears three perfectly timed knocks on her door. She looks at the clock on the shelf, surprised. It's still six in the evening. Had the traffic not been that bad that the Andersons had immediately gotten through?

She looks down at the tub of ice cream she's decided to eat by herself. Hm.

Maybe Hank won't mind.

There's another series of knocks. Hamilton quickly gets to her feet to get the ice cream tub back into the fridge. “Just a moment!” she says, and then frowns, because didn't her house already have the Anderson boys registered in its system?

“Front door, open,” she says, already running towards said door, and thankfully, she catches it just as soon as it swings itself open. Connor still has one hand raised to knock. Surprising how he hasn't just settled for pressing the doorbell until she got annoyed, like he always did.

“Hey!” Hamilton skids on the floor and bumps her shoulder into the doorframe trying to stop, making her wince a little. She raises her head, about to nervously laugh and excuse her clumsy welcome by saying she hadn't expected her visitors to get home early, but then she notices that there's only one person on the doorstep.

Hank isn't there. RK800-60 isn't there either.

Neither is Connor.

The person who stands in front of her looks like Connor, kind of, but he's taller, the set of his jaw is wider, and his eyes are steel blue. He isn't wearing a police uniform, nor is he wearing any of the sweaters and jackets the Anderson boys are fond of. Instead it's a white and grey uniform, accented with blue LED markings, not dissimilar to how old android uniforms used to be, and right where his model code number should be, RK900 is printed.

Hamilton looks up at him, and then back down to his serial number.

She blinks.

“Okay,” she says. “Uh, hello?”

He says nothing, and Hamilton feels like she wants to slink into the corner of the room to hide from the sheer awkwardness this whole situation reeks of.  

She wonders for a moment if she should let him in the house. He looks familiar enough that her guard is let down for just a second, and she almost does invite him in, but then she remembers that he can also probably snap her neck if he wanted to.  

She decides safety is her foremost priority right now. With an awkward smile, she raises a hand in a 'please wait a moment' motion, fishes out her phone from her pockets, and then calls the third number on her speed dial, all the while keeping her eye on her visitor.

RK800-60 picks up on the first ring. “Hello, Ham?”

“RK, hey, uh.” She shifts on her feet, unsure of how to word her question. “Do you, uh, have a third brother?”

RK800-60 doesn't answer right away. “I'm assuming you mean another RK800 model who's up and running. No one I know, no. The ones I know who're functioning right now are myself and Connor.”

“How about the RK series in general?”

“Markus is an RK200.”

“Oh, shit, really?” Hamilton lets out a little breath of surprise. “I didn't know that, I'm a dumbass. But, uh, those are the only ones you know who're alive right now?”

“They should be, yeah. Why?” In a second, his voice suddenly becomes tight, concerned. “Ham, is something wrong?”

RK900 is staring down at Hamilton blankly. She can't tell what he's feeling – if he's even feeling or if he's just been freshly activated to like, maybe ask her where the Andersons were and kidnap them, or something – and she doesn't know what he's thinking. She knows that because she's risking not letting him out of her sight, she's also allowing him to listen in on her conversation, but perhaps its better like this. If anything happens to her, RK800-60 can hear it.  

“Do you - ” her voice breaks off in nervousness and she clears her throat “ - do you know anything about uh, model RK900, serial number...313 248 317 – uh, dash, 87?”

There's a pause.

And then RK800-60 curses, very, very softly. There's a shuffle, the faint sound of Hank's voice as he says, “Hey, what – what are you doing -” and then Hamilton leans back a little, incredulous, when she registers that she's hearing a car door open and then close, and then there's the noise of several car horns, the patter of the rain, and loud but rapid splashes.

“Where is the RK900?”

“On my porch,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“By the doorway.”

“…you're directly face to face with it?”

“No, it's more like, chest to face, or more accurately lower right ribcage to face, but you know.”

“Hamilton, what the fuck?”

Hamilton laughs, voice high and very, very clearly nervous, because RK900 has tilted his head, and suddenly she wishes he hadn't moved at all. “Hey, I figured it was better I didn't let him out of my sight. At least I called you.”

“Keep me on the phone.”

“Wasn't planning on hanging up, RK, I'm so absolutely terrified out of my mind right now.”

“Stay calm.”

“I'm trying.”

The splashes on the other side are getting louder. There's a very loud honk.

“What were you doing before the RK900 showed up at your door?”

“I was watching Happy Tree Friends,” Hamilton says, immediately taking the bait for a distraction, “And eating ice cream.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“An entire tub?”

“Like, a fourth,” she pauses, “But my goal was the whole tub.”

“God damn it, Ham - ”

That''s how Hamilton ends up spending her Friday evening. She doesn't get a movie marathon, but she does end up staying on the phone for half an hour with her best friend, all the while trying to stare down an android on her porch while said android keeps watching her silently.  

And then the half an hour passes and RK800-60 gets to her house, sprinting through the rain like hell is on his heels, and tackles RK900 to the ground.

-

RK800-60 has made a lot of mistakes. A lot of them were pre-deviancy, but he himself knows that the seed for deviancy has always been there even before Connor had showed him his memories, so he knows he has no excuse, and that he's still to blame, and therefore it is still a mistake of his. He messed up quite a bit in Jericho – he'd lost his footing on scaffoldings and had almost fallen to his death too many times, he’d had a hard time stringing his words together at first and often said things wrong that got him on the receiving end of someone else's ire, and he'd – well, in general, existed.  

Actually, he's trying to get out of this mindset, but it's quite difficult, even after more than a year after the Detroit Uprising, and he's settling into his life with the Andersons. He can't say he's settling well, exactly, but he does know he's settling, and it's not settling for. It's better than he deserves after everything.

But the fact remains that RK800-60 has still made mistakes. Small mistakes, big mistakes. He's burnt eggs a lot of times when he was still learning household chores. He's stayed out late wandering the city because he'd gotten distracted by the pretty lights. He's also delivered coffee late to the precinct because he saw a rather cute dog and decided to follow it as its owner walked it (he made a friend, at least), and then when he got to the precinct, the coffee was cold and he had to run to the shop to get a new cup.  

He's also gotten into fights back when he was in Jericho. He's gotten into arguments with Connor that lasted day because of his petty stubborness. He's once pissed off Hank and had to stay over Hamilton's for two nights until he decided to apologize.

But he decides, that he's royally, royally, abso-fucking-lutely - as Hank would say - fucked up, the day he'd decided to go into the Cyberlife tower when the company was officially declared to be shut down.

There'd been plenty of movement against the company ever since the Uprising, and Markus had been negotiating with its board members to hand over the production of android parts to him and Jericho, as they'd initially requested when his first message went nationwide. So eventually, due to pressure – and with Elijah Kamski not giving a damn and just waving a hand and going, “Go ahead.” - the corporation had caved in, and had agreed to hand the keys of production over to Markus.

Which kind of meant they gave him the entire building.

It had just been a coincidence. RK800-60 had gotten thrown out the house (actually, no, he didn't; he and Hank had a disagreement, and like the rebellious, slightly frustrated teenager his personality seemed to embody, he'd walked out the house) and decided camping out at Hamilton's was the best option, much to the confusion of her parents. In the morning, he'd gotten a call from Markus that most of the Jericho crew was going to the Cyberlife Tower, and that if he was free, he was invited to come along.

Connor had been busy. And RK800-60 suspected he hadn't wanted to go back to Cyberlife considering his last time there had involved RK800-60 taking his father figure hostage, and then his sentience had nearly been taken over by Amanda. He  imagined Hank hadn't wanted him to go either. Hadn't wanted for either of them to.

But Hank hadn't been there, and RK800-60 hadn't seen him that day as he hadn't gone home. Instead he'd stayed the morning at the Hamiltons’, even making them breakfast and helping them around the house as a bit of thanks, and then when he was done, he took a cab to Cyberlife Tower and met up with everyone else.

They were all given a tour by some of the remaining human staff who hadn't already packed up their bags and left, and with the number of androids who were with them, all eager to see what was possibly going to become a second base of operations – maybe even a building where some of them could keep offices in – no one saw him slip away when they reached the production room.  

He hadn't meant to stray from the crowd, he really hadn't, but at the time of the Uprising, androids hadn't stopped their production. Connor had freed the ones in the Belle Isle, but the factory ran nonstop. There were still models left, about to be delivered into their respective storage floors; some were even in more secure floors.

They'd passed by one of these floors. They weren't supposed to be kept secret anymore, of course, so their guide had told them that there were android models still there, but didn't exactly lead them inside because they were on a tight schedule and they needed to show Markus the entire building before they were supposed to pack up and leave.  

But it had caught RK800-60's attention, and he'd stayed behind while everyone else had moved on. He'd been curious, and these days, he’s very rarely curious.

The door easily opened to him after he'd hacked it, and he'd found himself in a not-too-small, and yet not-too-big room that had a glass and metal table not unlike the ones found in operating rooms. There was a seat near the table, mounted on a track that went around it so whoever was working there could simply let the chair glide around the table as they needed it to.  

There were huge storage cases around the room, all of them password-locked, of course, and it took him quite some time to hack through all of them as they each had different codes, most just utterly silly, which clearly reflected the personality of whoever worked here before. Most of them contained biocomponents – old ones taken apart for study, a couple of new ones that probably still had to undergo approval as they were still packed in plastic containers and were tagged with post-it notes, and there were even sketches of additional upgrades, some of them drafted on blueprints and some simply scribbled on notebook paper.

But there was one storage case that was triple-encoded, and did not contain mere biocomponents stacked on shelves and stacked eccentrically.  

RK800-60 spent about an hour and half sitting in front of the storage case, one hand on its keypad, trying get past the AI that was programmed into it, and nearly getting locked out of it permanently when he momentarily decided to try inputting passcodes and almost hitting the limit on how many times he could try guessing the password.  

Finally, when he'd bypassed the case's AI (and kudos to whoever worked here once, to go through the trouble of coding an AI specifically for protecting this case), it had opened, and he'd felt a bit of pride and nearly laughed out loud in triumph. He'd figured then he should probably join some of those codebreaking forums on the internet, as this was proving to be fun for him, and anything that gave him innocent and honest fun was valuable, as he was always reminded, but then he'd looked up at what was inside the case, and he'd stilled.

He'd been looking at himself.

Or, he'd thought he was. He'd snapped out of it after a second and studied the android's features. Its jaw was set wider, it was taller by at least a foot, and it was wearing a different jacket than he'd been when he'd still had its uniform.  

RK900, the model code read.

There was sticky note over the serial code, and it read, in the same handwriting as all the notes and sketches in the room had been penned in, Snarky Mcbuttface.

Well. Someone's engineer was exasperated yet fond.

He'd realized that moment that he had to have an engineer, somewhere, out there. Or maybe Connor had, or the very first RK800, anyway. Maybe it was one person, as with Kamski and Chloe. Maybe it was an entire team. He’d wondered how they were doing, whoever made him.

And then he brushed the thought aside, there was no use dwelling on it. He wasn't going to know whoever had made him from simply a glance.  

He'd wondered if the RK900's engineer was still in the building, packing up along with the humans who were still leaving. Maybe not. This room was heavily locked.

He'd stood up, staring up at the RK900, and then reaching out, as if to touch the android's arm.

“Why were you kept so securely here?” he'd asked, out loud, like the android would hear him. He'd been aware that his fingers were touching the back of the android's hand, and that his synthetic skin was receding, ready to interface. The android's skin was receding too, and the white plastic shone up at RK800-60 despite the dim lightning of the room.

The LED on the RK900's uniform had slowly started to light up.

RK800-60 had pulled his hand back, as if he was burned, and he'd let out a sigh of relief when the LEDs died down again.  

He'd stared at the model, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

He’d closed the door on the case, but didn't set the lock on it again. Markus would convert the android when he'd find it later.

He'd given the room one last look and then he'd left.

-

Hamilton is alive when he gets there, at least. She shrieks a little and jumps back in surprise when he seemingly appears out of nowhere to tackle RK900 and rip her front door off its hinges when both of them barrel into it, of course, but she's alive.  

She's currently sitting on her couch and stress-eating the rest of her ice cream while RK800-60 is setting his wrist and arm back into place. Sitting across him is RK900, attempting to smooth out his uniform and waiting for his fancy-smanshy advanced repair system to finish its work.  

RK800-60 might be a little bitter. He knows what RK900 is, even without having to be briefed. He knows his purpose. He looks like the RK800 model; he's part of the RK series with a number that's nearly right behind the 800 line; and in the brief moment of that not-really-interface, he'd managed to get a glimpse of the surface of his coding.

He was built to be a detective too, only faster, better, stronger. An upgrade. That's why there were all those blueprints and those new parts in that lab.

His engineer's work is impressive, admittedly. He's still a prototype, yes, but he's already got nanotech implemented into his systems for advanced repair. Nanotech had still been in development before Cyberlife had shut down – something the upper class would probably have access to first, of course, but it was said that it would still be a few years before it was officially released.

Maybe Shiny Silver here had been a favorite.  

RK800-60's already called Connor, so he's probably already trying to speed his way home as fast as he can, and there doesn't seem to be any sign of another fight breaking out in the house, as both androids have settled for silently glaring at each other.

Or, at least, RK800-60 is. RK900 is just silently staring. He looks...blank.

RK800-60 wonders then if he's even deviant.

“RK?”  

That's Connor. RK800-60 still jolts a little at the nickname anyway. It's never going to not weird him out. He turns to where the front door is...awkwardly hanging on one hinge, barely leaning upright on the inner wall, and sees Connor wincing as he looks at the damage. Beside him is Hank, who takes one look at RK900, whose gash on the right temple is sealing up, and says, “Oh, holy shit, there's another one of you.”

“Right here,” RK800-60 says, raising a hand.  

Connor steps into the room, followed by Hank, immediately heading for their couch. “Hamilton?”

“Rai'here,” the girl says through a mouthful of ice cream, and she's still going.  

Hank raises an eyebrow. “You got any more of that?”

“Av'got pizza in the fridge but ya'gotta 'eat it up.”

Hank heads for the fridge, and Hamilton scrambles off the couch after him, which leaves all the androids together in the living room.

Connor lifts his head a little, a motion to show he's not afraid as he stares down the ever-unperturbed RK900, and RK800-60 thinks, near-hysterically for a moment, that he's kind of like a bird, trying to make himself look big.  

“The damage to his temple's been repaired now,” Connor notes as RK900 wipes at the thirium on his forehead.  

“Advanced repair systems,” RK800-60 says, a little bitterly, “He probably costs more than a small fortune.”

“Are you a prototype?” Connor asks. He still doesn't sit down.

And RK900 still says nothing.

“He's a tough one, detective,” RK800-60 says, laughing, leaning back on the couch, and then sitting up straight again when he remembers he's rolled up his sleeve to set his arm back in place and there's still thirium all over him. “We might be here a while.”

The corner of Connor's lips turn up for a second. “Well. I do have my badge for a reason.”

RK800-60 watches him as he turns to the direction of the kitchen for a moment. Hank and Hamilton are talking in rushed tones over food, clearly discussing what had happened when RK900 had arrived. They're safely away from the threat, and between both RK800 models, if the android with them ever gets violent, they'll have it covered.

Connor moves to sit beside RK800-60 and laces his hands together, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Do you have a name?”

RK900 tilts his head. And then, he shakes his head.  

“Well, we got at least one answer.” RK800-60 lifts his shoulders.  

“That's a start,” Connor says, glancing at him for a moment. Then to the RK900: “Why are you here?”

RK900 takes another pause before he answers again. Both Connor and RK800-60 tense and ready themselves when they see him turn to look at the kitchen, where the humans are. Thankfully, he doesn't stand up and go to them, and directs his attention back to the RK800s.

He raises his hands and moves them, and RK800-60 blinks as he registers that RK900 is signing.

I remember you, RK900 is saying, pointing to RK800-60. And then he turns to the kitchen. I remember them too.

Connor frowns, confused, but whatever question he has to ask next dies on his tongue as RK800-60 just gives up and leans back on the couch, covering his face in his hands and groaning.

“RK?” he asks.

RK800-60 ignores him, and just keeps groaning, because he doesn't need human lungs and just needs to keep repeating the same note from his voice box.

He stays like that for a while. RK900 almost goes into standby.