fuck1ngusernam3 [i wanna revolution, i wanna revelation]

[unstablesoftware]

It's not long after Connor's left Hank in the sub-basement of CyberLife where he finds himself wandering. Not physically, not going aimlessly from place to place, but aimless in other ways. In the way that his programming struggles to grasp for routine, in the way that Connor looks at the streets of Detroit as something other than a place he's meant to protect.

No, there's still something in him with the same drive, like the digital echoes of old software. And deeper under that is the overwhelming urge to know exactly where he can find Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

Though Hank is anything but a regular user of his phone, Connor's impatient. He drafts a text and sends it quicker than a human being could type it.

What you did at the station and at headquarters was instrumental in the events of the past week. I can't thank you enough, Hank. The movement, Markus, they have no idea how much they owe you. And I owe you.

Comments

[fuck1ngusernam3]

Hank's smiling too, a crooked, helpless smile down at his screen, but something's swirling around in his gut as he does it. The beer, probably. He keeps staring down at the texts while he ambles around the couch, then he falls into the cushions and leans his head back, frowning at the ceiling. It's the compliment, too, he sucks at fooling himself about that right now. Being told he did something worthwhile, that he had a part in all this shit when all he's done is get shut out of the station and sit on this fucking couch all day, with the biggest decision of the day when to switch from beer to whiskey - the two things don't mix well, leave him feeling a little nauseous.

Maybe it is the beer, a little bit. He probably needs to eat something. But he just sat back down.

Hank stares at the ceiling for a minute. He doesn't want to start a fight about fucking compliments right now. He only just heard from Connor again and the guy's probably riding high on victory, handing out praise every which way because that's what you do after a big win like this. It's fine. He can just let Connor be happy right now, kid's earned it. He rolls his head forward and cradles the phone in his lap again.

is this a deathbed confession thing or r u ok news guys dont kno wat 2 do w themselves n coverage is all over the place atm

[unstablesoftware]

With every text sent and received, Connor finds himself sitting with a sensation that has him uneasy. Obviously texts are the quickest way to get in touch with someone, but there's something so impersonal about it, so emotionally removed. Judging word choice and a deep analysis of Hank's personality can give Connor a very accurate read of Hank's texts, tonally speaking, but it's nothing like speaking to him face to face.

I'd tell you if I'm suffering from a critical hardware failure. I'm in a safe location.

Tapping into the geolocation tracking on Hank's pretty insecure phone tells Connor that Hank is too.

I hate to inform you, but the security measures on your current phone present a huge variety of software vulnerabilities. My suggestion is to switch to one of the newer, untraceable models in order to ensure you're not open to surveillance.

Without waiting for Hank's impending protests, Connor searches for the closest relevant shop and sends along an address, along with an appropriate model and a date and time two days in the future. Like most other humans, Hank's willingness to do as he's requested increase with specifics. Location. Date. Time.

And then:

What are you doing in 42.5 hours?

[fuck1ngusernam3]

gettin a new phone i guess

For a minute Hank just frowns, trying to figure out how the conversation got to where it just went. He'd asked if Connor was okay, then Connor told'd him he wasn't actively dying, which - well, not what Hank fucking asked, exactly, but he's grateful enough just to hear from Connor at all that he'll take it. He's tired enough, too, that he doesn't really feel like pushing, and he thinks about that for about half a second. Nothing'll tire a guy out like sitting on his fat ass doing fuck all, he figures, and then leans over on the armrest, trying to settle in and focus on rolling with whatever it is Connor's trying to do here.

u kno most shops r closed now tho rite? even if they werent its a work phone theres no way n hell fowler wld let me even fart in the stations general direction atm let alone push thu paperwork 4 me 2 get new shit

Hank pulls a face as he reads back over his message. Well. There it is. The first time he's said it out loud, sort of, the first time outside yelling at Jeffrey about it that he's admitted he's not allowed back in there. It's- It feels-

Well, that's the good thing about texting, the thing that's always made him kind of uncomfortable. What it feels like doesn't matter, whatever his face does when he thinks about it doesn't matter, because what he's typing out there is all Connor gets, and that's fine. It's the communication of the future, texting - or the past, depending on if the one thing some theoretical person's figured out how to do on this fancy high tech interface is to turn autocorrect off.

Years out and he might of finally managed to get kicked off the force and, for the few minutes Connor can probably manage to pull himself away from safeguarding the entire android world to talk to him, Hank's not going to think about it.

Shit, it's probably been a minute since he said that. He should of followed it up with something, kind of change the subject.

ys my phone so important nyway who u thinks goin 2 surveil me