Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

Occam's Razor

November 9th, 2038
PM 02:26:10

The philosophy of psychology is a contemporary concept.  Cognitive science, the study of the mind, could be argued as a philosophical idea of itself.

It was one of those topics you tried to avoid for fear of endless headache, no pun intended, yet remained centrical to your more esoteric questions about life.

Questions you'd stopped asking yourself because diving into arcane knowledge was something you'd learned to evade, and you'd learned it the hard way.

"One of you saw the attack on the surveillance cameras and said nothing."

Questions like:  What occurs in the brain, within the soul, that dubs a certain psychological phenomenon as knowledge?

"Which means there's a deviant in this room..."

Questions, that – should you stop to ask them, you'd wonder if you'd be fulfilled with the answers.

"...And I'm going to find out which, it is..."

Connor wasn't asking questions anymore.

"'Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings – always darker, emptier, and simpler.'"

He'd moved on to ruthless indictments.  A malicious hunt for the truth through accounts of punishment with the promise of no reprieve...

Against your better judgement, that left you questioning a lot of things.

But the philosophy of politics was more perplexing...because politics have no morals.

"You're going to be switched off."  Connor was inches away from one of the androids as he pointed behind himself at you, "We're gonna search your memory, and tear you apart piece by piece, for analysis..."

Somehow, it made you ashamed – like you were guilty by association for being unable to stop the interrogator barking in their faces.  Like they were victims, and you held the key to their immortal prison.

"You're going to be destroyed!"  Connor latched on to its uniform, his teeth snapping as he yelled, "Do you hear me?! DESTROYED!"

His vice moved to the android's forearm; his skin peeling back as his plastic limbs took on a brilliant shine.  His victim writhed in place, shaking uncontrollably.

Your eyes screwed shut.  Your fingernails dug at the flesh on your palms.  Your wound stung from the new bend it took, flinching as if Connor was probing at you rather than the android.

"No memory..."

You turned around, finding Simon bloodied and abandoned.  His own exposed limb was on the same side as Connor's predominant hand.

"He must have probed his memory, too..."

Your fingers trailed up the patchwork plastic, tilting your head in focus.

"Deviants can communicate with each other through a form of telepathy, for lack of a better term." Connor scared you with his unannounced proximity, "Did you know that?"

His interrogator voice had you on edge, and you squinted.

"No, I didn't."

"I didn't either until I heard Simon's call for help...he must have felt my presence."

Connor retrieved a curved, plastic bit that looked like an earpiece, one hand still in his pocket.  He started to play with it like his coin – an almost cannibalistic motion as he studied the body it belonged to.