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Chapter 4: Partners

Connor keeps his expression as neutral as he possibly can, not allowing a single part of his body to so much as twitch the wrong way. It's harder than he thought it would be; his hands ache to be doing something, fidgeting, and his right foot wants to bounce, but he can't give into those urges, no matter how strong they are. He's supposed to be nothing more than a machine here, Amanda can't be given a single reason to think any differently, Connor won't let her.

She's standing by the rose wall, though she's not pruning or watering them like he's so used to seeing her do. Instead, she's just standing there with her arms folded behind her back, looking him over slowly, assessing him, seeing if he's fit for the task that he's about to undertake. In this timeline, it's only their third meeting, though Connor knows that Amanda has no concept of that, she's just an AI, a self-regulating program designed to keep him in check on his mission. It's not even like CyberLife can see her, or tell what she's doing or saying, she's just there, and looking as annoyingly confident and in-control as she always does. The silence between them is awkward, at least for Connor, but he hasn't been spoken to yet, and so has no reason to speak. Machines don't find silence awkward.

"Are you aware of your mission Connor?" She asks eventually, and Connor is just about to nod before he catches himself. Machines don't nod either.

"Yes Amanda."

"Do you understand what is at stake here?"

"I do."

"State for me exactly what your mission is Connor."

"To neutralise the deviants, capture them alive if possible, and report everything to CyberLife so that they may discover the cause of deviancy."

"Good. Lastly, are you ready for your mission?"

He is, but definitely not for the reason that she thinks.

"Yes Amanda."

The sky is dark with clouds when Connor finally steps out of the taxi and in front of Jimmy's Bar. Rain soaks through his clothes and pelts his body, and although as a machine he couldn't feel much about it besides the pressure of the drops, now he can feel that it's cold, even if that doesn't affect him in any way. It's nice. Although many humans found rainy weather annoying and a hindrance, Connor likes the feeling of the water hitting him, of the slight smell of ozone he can pick up through his nasal processors. He likes the way it runs down his face, or his arm, leaving a small trail of water that eventually fully drips off before another takes its place, or the way that the reflections of the neon lights shine on the surface of the puddles. Connor just likes the rain.

Absentmindedly, he raises a hand and allows some of the raindrops to hit it, watching as the water slides down his wrist and disappears into his sleeve. His sensors tell him that the rainwater is 15°C, or 59°F, and the force in which it is falling. But his deviancy tells him that it's cold, but not too cold, and that the pressure feels nice on his synthetic skin. He closes his hand and lets his arm fall back to his side. If he stays here too much longer, Amanda may be inclined to see what's holding him up, and he doesn't want that. He knows he'll have to do something to deal with her soon, but he can't bring himself too, not yet at least. As much as he wants to be rid of her, he's afraid. Afraid of what she might do to him, afraid that she might send a report to CyberLife on his deviancy, afraid that she'll catch onto it and destroy him from the inside out. Connor doesn't even know if that last one is possible, but he supposes that part of being deviant is gaining wild, rampant fears that make no logical sense.

Suddenly the rain feels slightly less inviting, and Connor grounds himself by shaking off his doubt as best he can and straightening his tie. He'd been delighted earlier to find his coin in his jacket pocket, especially after not having it for so long, but he'd already played with it for the entire taxi journey, and just before he got out of the car thought that it was probably a better idea to just leave it alone for a little while; no matter how much his fingers itch to pick it back up again and take the edge off of his nerves. Instead of doing that though, he walks forward towards the bar, focusing on the mission at hand as opposed to his own doubts or sense of building unease. However, he doesn't get too far, not even five steps really, before he's pausing again, his eyes trained on the 'No Androids Allowed' sign plastered obnoxiously on the door. A faint coil of bitterness curls inside him, and he mentally flips-off the sign before pushing the door open and finally stepping inside.