Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

Spare Parts

November 8th, 2038
PM 05:30:39

Zip.  Velcro.  Button snap-snap-snap.  Fan the collar; fan the cuffs.  Cover yourself with enough "uniform" and equipment to bury your humanity.

It was easier than dealing with what it meant to be human.  You wanted to get lost in your work; your job, one that required a finesse for stomping out emotions and leaving them in your locker rather than your dark-blue, fabric skin.

You were no longer a person.  You were a cop; a tool to be utilized by the city of Detroit.

That's what you told yourself, anyway.

The transcendence was a practiced routine, mimicked by a reflection in the same mirror that'd recorded your evolution.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."

There were more than a few stages to the human-like apparatus staring back at you.  You weren't sure if you were the body being reflected, or the distorted reflection itself.

A nameless figure that had once been identified – but you didn't know her anymore.  You'd seen her develop before the interrogation, and return with a bullet-shaped mark of trauma on her stomach.

It was both terrifying and reassuring...because if even you didn't know yourself; your enemies wouldn't, either.  Hell, your enemies didn't even know they were on your hitlist yet.  But they'd learn.

Just not today.

Today, you were going to speak with Carl Manfred...

The name of another human you'd fallen out of touch with.

...

Snow and freezing rain came down in a mixture of ice and cold feathers molting off the blizzard flying around Detroit.  Chris tapped the steering wheel of the police cruiser, head bobbing as he whistled a tune.  He'd been excited about having you back, and while you shared that excitement, you'd struggled to even so much as smile when the two of you had left.

"Didn't see your car in the parking lot." He turned down a street, slowing the car as pedestrians crossed, "You take a cab or something?"

"Rode here with Hank and Connor." You were leaned back in your seat, boot planted on the dashboard.

Your elbow dug between the windowsill and the glass, a cold point of contact that slithered up through your fist and into your chin.

"Ah-hah.  Gotchya." He sniffed, rubbing his nose with his shoulder, "Did Anderson tell you how Reed's been playing his parking lot game with him since you've been gone?"

You scoffed, "Parking lot game?"

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about.  When Reed parks his big, jacked up, overcompensating Wrangler with his stupid, 'My Other Ride is a Marauder,' bumper sticker too close to your driver's side door so you can't get in."

"He does that on purpose?" You shot forward, "Do you even know how many times I've had to climb over the passenger's seat to get to my fucking-"

"Every day, right?  I swear, it's like he waits for you to park and get in the building before he...well, I'd say he parks, too, but let's be real.  When was the last time he took up one parking spot?"

"Yeah, I know – there's lines for fuck's sake."

"Mmmm-hm.  Tell me about it."

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket.  You dropped your foot to the mat below, and pushed your hips forward to reach around.  You plopped back in your seat, swiping your lock screen away to find a message that had your heart stop.