Chapter Text
Androids can’t feel pain. Pain is a human stimulus managed by the central nervous system, only activated when damage is inflicted. It’s the body’s way of telling the brain that Hey, something’s wrong here. As the most unpleasant sensation a human can experience, every part of medical history involves discovering ways to minimize it as much as possible.
Kids learn to shy away from pain young. People have different tolerances to it. Women can handle more than men. It can kill the body all on its own—
And android’s can’t feel it. Gavin had already made up his mind on this. He’s personally seen Connor get shot in the gut and continue to run two miles after their suspect like a fucking lunatic. He’s delivered a sucker punch to Connor’s nose and watched him take it as though it was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Only twice has he ever heard Connor make any kind of noise to indicate hurt, and even then he knew it wasn’t because he was actually in pain. The sounds were programmed into him to make him seem more human or whatever— or it had been a surprise response that came with deviancy. Not pain.
He’d seen two androids who’d been victims to a vicious hate mob, and they’d been more upset by the concept that they could have been killed than by the fact that they were both drenched in their own blood, holes in their plastic bodies and heads— had they been able to feel pain, it would have been agony. Instead of writhing in pain, they'd simply sat for an hour while Connor calmed them— they were fine.
Androids don’t feel pain.
Gavin had been so, so sure of it.
Yet, as he watches this fuckin’ piece of shit of a man plug in a massive cable to an enormous jerry-rigged electrical outlet... it feels more like a heavy hope than the certain fact he was used to.
The ShitBird doesn’t hate humans, he hates androids, and the closest one he has available is Connor— strung up by his wrists, toes barely touching the ground while Gavin sits firmly against the wall, tied to a kitchen chair with zip-ties that are beginning to cut off his circulation.
Gavin hates Connor. He really, really does. He’d decided that when he’d first laid eyes on that stupid doe eyed face with that bright fucking LED back in November. Had hated him even more once he’d gotten a soul because then he’d gotten opinions and started doing whatever he wanted— not that he hadn’t done that before deviating anyway.
The stupid fucking android never gets tired or slows down. They could be three days without sleep on a case, dragging and hurt, and the kid would still be immaculately dressed and at attention, ready to spring onto the next lead and next interview, willing to lend a hand to anyone while he waited for the humans to gather their strength.
Gavin hates his entire fucking facade of nonchalance and patience— his quiet personality and contentment. They work a hard fucking job with the most wicked parts of society— that shit eats at the mind. Seeing Connor mulling around, green eared but programmed to be as competent as any weathered detective? Gavin hates him for it.
At least Connor is more fun to bully now— now the kid snipes back, tossing out snark and insults whenever he can be bothered and ignoring Gavin when he can’t. It's far more entertaining. It makes being around Connor’s annoying attitude digestible when Gavin manages to get the bastard to snap back.
Despite their combined efficiency, Fowler knows better than to put Gavin and Connor on cases together very often. When they are forced to work together it's always for a very short amount of time— lest Gavin shoot Connor for encouraging their bromance. That was exactly what this case was supposed to be— quick.
A quick case, not a case where they were lured into a trap, Connor forced to obey or risk a bullet to Gavin’s brain. Gavin can still feel the angry heat under his skin from that— Connor had single handedly broken into one of the most guarded building in Detroit and taken down eight patrols before leading thousands of Androids across a very militarized city— Gavin is one hundred percent confident that the brat could have taken out their little ShitBird suspect, even with a gun barrel smashed against Gavin’s ear.
But instead Connor hadn’t risked it, mentioning something about a ten percent fail rate while ShitBird had strung him up on hooks.
Ten percent is low as hell. Gavin would have risked ten percent. Hell, he would have risked Connor’s life on a fifty-fifty chance— but Connor had chosen not to.
Gavin hates that.
He hates that he knows Connor doesn’t see him as a liability, even though technically, in that situation, he had been.
He hates that even while Connor eyes their suspect, he also doesn’t hesitate to scan over Gavin to be sure he isn’t injured.
Fuck, he hates Connor. He doesn’t need a fucking android trying to take care of him. Doesn't need his synthetic sympathy.
He changes trains of thought.
Their ShitBird— Gavin refused to call him by his real name, mostly because he’d also forgotten it— has to be at least 6’7”, if not more, and looks to weigh somewhere around 300 pounds. There will be no tussling with this man— if they get free they will have to either run or take him out from a distance. If he gets too close, they won’t be able to fight him off.
Well, Gavin won’t. He knows androids are stronger than humans, but he doesn’t know by how much. If they get a moment alone, he’ll ask the brat if he can bench press their man.
Gavin tests his binds again, clenching his teeth silently as they bite further into his skin, slicking his arms and ankles with blood. If he can get it slick enough, he might be able to get free— it would just hurt like a bitch. If he had worn his jacket then they’d already be free. It's tough and slippery, and he would have been able to slip his wrists right out. If he can get free as is, he’ll need to do it when ShitBird isn’t in the room— then he’ll be able to grab Connor and—
Grab Connor?
Gavin closes his eyes.
Connor is a person in the eyes of the law, and by code, he is also a fellow police officer. Gavin hates his fucking guts, but he supposes that doesn’t mean he get to decide if Connor lives or dies. Two years ago, he had thought otherwise. He likes to think he’s not the same person that had tried to assassinate Connor in the evidence room. Nowadays, if he had the opportunity Gavin would just fire a round near Connor— just to scare the shit out of him, not to actually hurt him.
He thinks about it. In a case of self preservation... no one would question Gavin taking an escape, even if it means he can’t bring Connor along.
Somehow, he also hates himself for even having the thought. He will take Connor. If he can get free, he will go for Connor, not the door. Connor is a piece of shit, but he doesn’t deserve death. Gavin wonders if it’s the life full of saving all kinds of scummy people as a police officer that has him making up his mind, or if it’s the way Connor frowns at the blood gathering across Gavin's wrists from the restraints.
Fuck.
As it is, ShitBird seems to have no ideas about leaving them alone. He takes his massive cable and sets it down on the floor. Most of it is covered in a rubber conductor, but the very end is plain copper with four prongs that snap and spark occasionally. It's a wicked, ugly thing that makes his stomach churn just looking at it. Burnt flesh smells awful— the entire room was going to reek.
The man steps in front of Connor, and Gavin has the perfect angle to watch as the creep eyes Connor up and down like a piece of meat. Gavin hates Connor, but he hates people like this even more— he’s dealt with hundreds of them throughout his career, and he had learned a long time ago that most people with a complete disregard for life deserve nothing more than a bullet to the brain.
Not that Connor was alive— it's the principle of the thing.
Right?
Yeah. It is.
To his credit, Connor doesn’t so much as flinch when Shitbag reaches for Connor's chest, his touch almost gentle before grasping fistfuls of Connor's dress shirt and ripping it open, buttons flying every which way and clattering to the ground. Chest now bare, Connor looks far more vulnerable.
The android is regarding their perp with a calm, almost thoughtful expression. There’s a few approaches that Gavin can practically see swirling around in the kid’s head. Shitbird hates androids for taking their jobs and being superior— Connor could try breaking down, showing (or feigning, Gavin really isn’t sure) fear at whatever is about to come in an attempt to convince the man of his humanity— to appeal to his empathetic and humanistic side. Gavin throws that idea out immediately. Connor isn’t that stupid. This psycho had kidnapped two cops and already has Connor strung up like a fucking pig. Clearly his conscience isn’t exactly functioning at optimal levels. Shitbird would probably only get more of a kick out of the entire thing if Connor shows fear.
Connor could antagonize him, but Gavin had already been doing enough of that for the both of them, and it isn’t really Connor’s style anyway.
That leaves his normal, calm, level headed approach—
“If you abandoned this now, you could probably get far enough away to avoid being caught.” Connor’s voice is steady as ever, brow only dipping slightly as he is ignored.
Gavin really can’t stand looking at Connor much longer— no one hanging by their fucking hands has any business being so calm and collected. It’s fucking creepy.
But of course— androids can’t feel pain, so of course Connor seems unaffected.
Gavin feels his face twist in distaste as Shitbird reaches forward and presses his thumb between Connor’s collar bones. There was a faint hiss of compressed air being released. The skin on Connor's chest immediately flickers off, revealing the bright plasteel beneath. A seamless plane splits and a panel opens, sliding somewhere underneath Connor's stomach. It’s too fucking surreal— Gavin doesn’t just hate this— he fucking despises it. It’s too personal, too intimate, too much like watching a bad horror movie from his childhood. He can literally see Connor’s blue heart twitching away, thick tubes of thirium pulsing and panels of black boxes with wires twisting to intercept each other. It’s the chest of a machine— but it’s also looks far too much like that of a human. There's no reason to make the insides of androids to mimic humans. But that's how it is— how those fucking creeps at CyberLife had designed him.
They had not designed Connor to put Gavin’s life above apprehending their suspect. They had not designed Connor to give up at a ten percent chance of failure— of that Gavin was sure.
Connor stops looking at their perp once his chest is open, and Gavin is fairly certain he isn’t imagining the faint frown on Connor’s face. Gavin can’t blame him. If his entire chest was open in the basement of some creeps' house with a massive taser, he would probably frown too.
They're so fucked. Connor is so fucked. For some reason Gavin's stomach is twisting. Gavin tells himself it’s because their perp has no reason to keep him alive— and definitely not because Connor is in so much fucking trouble.
Sure enough, Shitbird turns away from Connor to grab his sparking magic wand, and the creep has the fucking audacity to throw Gavin a grin— like he expects Gavin to enjoy the show.
Twelve months ago, he might have.
Now he starts tugging further at his feet— if he can get his feet free, he may be able to use the chair as a weapon, knock their perp over the head with it—
But the zip-ties are too tight, he can’t get any leverage, and the asshole is already back in front of Connor, prongs creeping closer to his vulnerable chest—
“Hey!” Gavin's own voice surprises him. “It’s not fucking worth it— just run now and the judge probably won’t put you in for life.” His harsh words are enough to make Shitbird pause and turn to look at him, eyebrows shot up on his forehead in surprise. “Think about it. He’s not fucking worth it. Just run.” He snaps, His voice dark with something he wasn’t even aware of. The blood running down Gavin's wrists is hot, and their perp looks at him. Gavin can see the guy’s mind spinning, opens his mouth to keep going, to distract him—
But the prongs are shoved forward deep into Connor’s chest. Sparks fly immediately and the lights flicker above them as the electrical current threatens to overload the house’s breakers.
Connor’s scream is short and guttural, cut off into low whine of agony as he bucks away from the wand. His feet push off the floor for leverage— but the wand is tangled somewhere inside of Connor, and even as he thrashes madly, tries to lift himself on his binds, kicks out— the current doesn’t cease. All of Connor's muscles spasm and he ducks his head as he tries to wrench away— the wires and components in his chest crackle as the electricity burns him alive from the inside out. The room smells of melting plastic and hot metal.
Gavin can’t even hear himself shouting. The strength of it rasps against his raw throat. The asshole is fucking killing Connor.
All of a sudden Connor’s back and neck arch, and a harrowing screech he had obviously been trying to swallow escapes, ringing against Gavin’s ears. Connor's body stays rigid like that for a moment before the prongs are finally yanked free, bringing three severed wires with them. Connor drops like a rag doll, hanging limply from the ceiling.
Gavin feels like he can’t breathe.
Androids can’t— they can’t feel pain— but that—
Gavin had just witnessed agony. He isn’t a fool— Connor is an android, but that had been pain. Connor had been in pain.
Gavin's eyes water from the smoke wafting through the room. Acrid chemicals and coolant drip freely from Connor’s chest, sludge slowly slipping down smooth plastic onto fake skin. Connor’s head is limp against his chest, but Gavin can see the blue blood leaking from his ears and nose, rolling down his neck and staining his white collar. Connor's body gives a few involuntary twitches as lingering sparks overwhelm smaller sensors.
“I thought— they can’t feel pain. They’re not supposed to feel pain.” Gavin’s mouth moves without his permission, his words filling the silence. ShitBird stands a few feet from Connor, examining his work, eyes pleased. He throws a look at where Gavin is reeling.
“They don’t— unless you apply a current to their central nervous system.” Even the asshole's voice is filled with pride at having discovered such a finding. He sets his wand down off to the side, but doesn’t unplug it. “It’s one of the most sensitive biocomponents they have. It’s like electrocuting a raw nerve.” He turns back to Connor, eyeing the blood slipping down his cheeks. “I found out on accident, actually.” He reaches up and grasps Connor’s chin in an iron grip, forcing his heavy head up so he can see his eyes.
They look dead. If it weren’t for the pulsing red LED, Gavin would have thought he was. Connor’s eyes glass over sometimes if he thinks too hard or contacts someone wirelessly, but it's never like this— not this foggy film, unseeing and murky.
Gavin wonders if Connor’s been blinded. His LED is on, but is he actually still alive in there? Had he been fried out, his computer processor brain burnt beyond recognition? If Gavin needs a surge protector for his fucking TV in case the power flickers, how much is necessary to kill an android?
ShitBird drops Connor’s head carelessly, turning to Gavin instead. Despite himself, fear shoots up his spine, leaving a acidic taste in his mouth. Gavin turns it into a scowl instead of the grimace that wants to take its place.
Gavin’s surprised by the rage that fills him, rushing through his limbs and making him dizzy— it’s heavy in his chest and makes his teeth clench tightly. He doesn’t even fucking like Connor, but Gavin knows that Connor's smart as shit and isn’t afraid to stand up for what's right. As far as Gavin is aware, the bastard has never actually done anything wrong in his life— never fights with anyone or starts drama, never cuts deals or takes bribes, never uses his fame in Detroit or Jericho to get what he wants. He's a good guy— a good cop. Gavin can’t stand him, but the injustice of it all makes his skin burn.
Connor definitely doesn’t deserve death, and he certainly doesn’t deserve having his fucking nervous system hooked up to the house’s electricity circuit.
Their perp only makes eye contact for a moment before eyeing the blood dripping from Gavin's wrists. The asshole quirks his lip. “Sorry ‘bout that. You were just in the way really.” He steps closer, but doesn’t seem to have any intent with him. “I was going to try to get him out all by himself, but you were too good of leverage to just set free. He behaves so nicely when there’s any life but his at stake.”
Gavin has to stretch his jaw. If he gets any angrier, he might just break his fucking teeth.
“Why him?” Gavin's question is innocent enough, and their guy seems talkative. The more Gavin knows, the better suited he is to take him down— at least that’s what he tells himself.
“Seen him on TV. He’s everywhere. Detroit wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t raided CyberLife.”
Gavin scoffs. “It’s been two fucking years buddy. Move on. Detroit was going to fall eventually.” It's true— Connor had been a major player that night, but Gavin doesn’t doubt that the humans would have given in anyway with enough time.
And that wasn’t Connor’s fault. Not really.
ShitBird steps closer, cocking his head to the side. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that he feels it.” He jerks a thumb back where Connor hangs before shoving his hands in his pockets and meandering towards the stairs. Gavin waits for him to leave and tracks his steps thumping around upstairs. He loses him when the guy goes up to the second story. Gavin takes three steadying breaths. Then—
“Connor. Hey. Wake the fuck up.” He snaps.
Connor is swaying in his binds. The rope suspending him on an O ring looks coarse, and it's coated with blue blood. Connor's toes are dragging against the ground limply. It makes Gavin’s stomach twist. He had seen a murder a few years before that was uncannily similar.
“Hey— Connor!” He raises his voice. He needs Connor to wake up. If the bastard's fucking dead...
The LED shifts to yellow for a moment before changing back to red. Every now and then it splutters. It takes two minutes of silence, but eventually Connor lets out a low moan, his arms jerking.
“Connor. Come on. Wake up .” It’s concerning how long it’s taking— that Connor can’t jump back into action the way he normally does. “Hey!”
Gavin is rewarded with another groan, and eventually blinking, dull eyes. The blue blood smeared across Connor's face stands out starkly against his pale skin. When Gavin squints across the distance, he can see that something is fucked with Connor’s skin overall. It's swimming around in strange white blotches, some parts looking perfectly normal and other sections looking like the white plastic that Gavin can still see peaking out from his chest. It makes Connor look broken.
Connor's blinking lethargically, muscles twitching occasionally. Gavin can still see his beating blue heart, but he’s doing his best to ignore it. Connor’s arms jerk again— almost like he’s trying to pull himself up, and he manages to get his toes pressed correctly against the floor. The movement seems to suck the remaining energy from him, and he goes limp again.
“Come on, asshole, you still kickin’?” Gavin might break his thumbs, but he should be able to get free. He may need plastic surgery later to put all the skin back on his wrists, but he’s nothing if not a tough bastard. He can handle the pain if it means freedom. What's a few more scars anyway? He can just add them to the list.
Connor’s chest isn’t moving the way it normally does when he fakes breathing. Now it's jumping, and it sounds like he's sucking in air desperately. Gavin’s stomach creeps further up his throat. “Thought you plastic dolls don’t need to breathe— what the fuck are you doing over there?”
Connor’s response is full of soft static, his words dropping off strangely and hitching like they come through a poor connection. Gavin supposes maybe they are. “Over— overheat...ing.”
Overheating. He's breathing because he's overheating. Maybe it's like a fucking fan— more fresh air means cooling things off. Fuck if Gavin knows.
Gavin bites down harder on his lip as he gives a few more harsh tugs against his bonds, trying to make progress with quick excruciating movements instead of several slow agonizing ones. He can feel his pulse throbbing in his arms. At least his ankles are partially protected by his jeans. He turns his gaze away from Connor, staring at his wrists when he speaks again. “You gonna fuckin’ make it?” His tone is too gruff to be concerned, but Connor is smart. He'll probably hear it anyway. Whatever. Gavin is tired of pretending not to give a fuck— even if his pride is immortal.
“No.”
“The fuck you mean no? ” Gavin snarls.
“Thirium pu-pump. Short— ing out. Two hours... before shutdown.”
“And what the fuck does that mean?” He demanding, already knowing.
Somehow, Connor’s little sigh of exasperation is not rewarding. “Heart— Thririum pu-ump is... my heart. It’s— stut-stuttering... like...” He takes two deep breaths before falling silent for a moment, then very quickly forces out “Ventricul-ar fib-brillation. Two hours— til, shutdown— death.” Connor’s eyes are closed again.
“So you’re having a heart attack. Fucking fantastic. Just fucking wonderful, Connor.” Nevertheless, he takes three more pulls at the zip ties.
“Mmm-m... Do— doesn't feel— wonderful...” Connor pauses. “Assho-le.”
Gavin chokes out a snort. At least Connor still has his wit, it's the only bearable thing about him. Gavin had been a little afraid that the bastard had his entire brain baked to a crisp. They have two hours to do something with Connor before he dies. That isn’t a lot of time. It's even less time considering they're still bound in a basement at an unknown location.
The odds aren't great.
Gavin hears heavy footsteps heading back down the stairs.
The odds are awful, actually.
Gavin’s got his knuckles caught on the ties. It might actually be the pinkie that’s gotta go.
ShitBird ignores Gavin entirely in favor of stepping up to Connor. To his credit, Connor only shrinks back a little, but otherwise he doesn’t flinch or cower. He even lifts his head enough to look at his kidnapper properly. Gavin knows he doesn’t have much energy left and there's no way he isn't still in pain. He can respect that kind of fortitude, even if it's from a fucking android.
ShitBird flashes Connor a toothy grin. Steps closer.
Gavin also accidentally breaks his pinkie. He’s only aware of it for a second before he’s already got his pocket knife in hand from its holder on his belt. The ties around his feet come off in two slashes. The noise alerts ShitBird, but Gavin’s faster, and his dive for the wand is perfect , thank you. By the time ShitBird lunges for him, Gavin already has the prongs jammed against the guy's chest— a violent spark and pop— and the asshole’s dead before he hits the ground, skin smoking.
Gavin tosses the wand away, far enough that it can’t accidentally kill them. He makes a mental note to tell the first responders not to fuck with it. He considers unplugging it, but doesn’t want to risk it.
Connor’s watching him with those stupid bright puppy eyes, and Gavin goes back for his knife so he doesn’t have to look at him. Gavin has to drag the chair over to Connor and climb on top of it to reach the knot holding him aloft. After three minutes of listening to Gavin’s cussing at the knot, Connor speaks up from where he has been patiently awaiting freedom. “Pe-rhaps you— you should just cut it, de...tective.”
“Perhaps you should just shut it, asshole.” Nevertheless, he does start sawing at what ought to be the weakest point. The rope is thick, and it takes a few minutes of effort. He’s almost all the way through when he pauses and considers how they’re going to do this. “You’re not going to be able to catch yourself, are you.”
“Predictably n-no.”
Gavin motions at Connor's exposed chest cavity with his knife— “How the fuck do I shut this?”
Connor makes a little wheeze, arms tensing in their bonds. Androids aren’t supposed to feel pain, but after what Gavin has just witnessed, he really doesn’t want to leave Connor up there any longer than necessary— but he can’t really be manhandling him with his fucking ribcage out on display lest he risk getting a finger trapped in the brat's internals.
“Beeetween collar bones.” Connor makes a strange little grunt in the back of his throat— voice speaker— whatever. “Juuus— press.”
Gavin’s hand only hesitates a moment before reaching up and pressing firmly against the dip at the base of Connor’s throat. There’s a faint hiss and a click, and the plate that had disappeared starts moving back in place before getting caught halfway. “The hell’s wrong with it?”
“Fr-fried the— track wires. Stuck.”
Well, it's better than having it wide open. Some parts of Connor’s insides are still vulnerable, but it'll have to do. “Fine. Help me out here.” Gavin says as he climbs back onto the chair. He ends up wrapping one arm firmly around Connor’s back. He maneuvers Connor’s limp arms over his shoulders for balance since the bastard seems to have little ability to move. If nothing else it might keep them from knocking themselves out on the concrete.
Gavin makes one final slash and the rope snaps. Connor’s weight drops immediately, and Gavin tosses the knife to keep from stabbing him, both arms catching Connor beneath the armpits. The sudden drop pulls them both down in a graceless tumble, and Gavin only just barely manages to keep them both from smashing into cement. Connor is boneless and slippery, far too tall to be maneuvered easily. By the time Gavin untangles himself and sits back, Connor’s eyes are fluttering and his LED is strobing red.
“Ah, Jesus.” He pats Connor’s face a few times to try and get a reaction, but the kid’s already faded back out. Gavin’s a little impressed that he managed to stay alert as long as he had, given that his insides are still smouldering
It's fine. He’ll manage on his own. He’ll find a phone, call the precinct, get some first responders— and Hank. He’ll call Hank. Hank always knows what to do with Connor. He’ll know where to take him so he doesn't die. They still have an hour and a half.
Gavin is out of immediate danger, but Connor isn’t. Gavin still hates him, but he’ll keep him from dying. He stands quickly, already in search of a phone and his service weapon.
He’ll keep Connor alive— after all, the office would be far less interesting without the snarky little shit bumbling around.