I think I mentioned this to someone before, and maybe I even already threaded it, but I’m going to dig into the concept here anyway and thread about it: 60 being jealous of Connor’s life with Hank, his acknowledgement as The Real Connor, and his saving everyone BUT 60.

I think he’d be laying there after being shot, ready to be decommissioned. But in the wake of the revolution, he’s found and reassembled, fixed to near perfection—but he /remembers/. He remembers seeing the way Hank and Connor made for each other the moment they were safe, how-

they promised to meet again as soon as they could, how Connor woke every android in the tower while Sixty laid there, his own make and model, and bled to death slowly. He could see it then, and he remembers it now with his perfect android functions. He too, has found deviancy,-

under the blinding light of some facsimile of an operating table, his body strapped down like he’s still a danger to everyone. Maybe he is. He can feel the bite of his steely fingers into his hard palm, the pressure behind it, the same pressure that could have pulled a trigger-

on Hank, on the /other/ Connor, on the CyberLife employees, on Elijah Kamski, on himself.

So much death. All around him, in every form, of any kind. And he was alive despite it all.

Or, perhaps, because of it all.

Sixty can feel the nameless hands in his wires, cauterizing-

blue and white, tightening his screws until the pressure builds and builds. There’s fresh thirium pounding through him, ready to be spilt again by humans. Maybe by the /other/ Connor.

Sixty hates him. How can that stupid machine earn the trust of a human? How can he-

plan a life outside of the revolution with something that isn’t like him?

And how...how could he leave Sixty behind to go save someone else?

When the contraption overhead hisses, and the bindings come loose, Sixty’s LED flares blue again. He rises, his anger and despair-

fueling him, the image of his blue blood spilt while Connor built his army blazing in his processor. Yes, he’s deviated.

And the first thing he shall do is take Hank. He knows how, after all. His connection with Connor-51 is absolute.

He puts his plan into-

action. Perhaps Hank can tell the difference between Connor’s, but not another soul at the DPD can. It’s easy enough, now that Connor has chosen plain clothes for his daily uniform, to slip in on Connor’s day off. He’s been watching them, Hank and Connor, and it only took a-

month to learn their usual schedule.

So he assumes Connor-51, greets the ST300 at the front desk, and goes to Connor’s work terminal. Of course it’s Connor’s—there’s a picture of Hank sitting there, next to one of the St. Bernard they often take on walks at 7:45 pm around-

the block.

Connor has plenty of data there, backups, detective files, and it won’t even flag it as hacked. Connor believes himself to be the last RK800, after all, so it tracks no more than the model. Serial number be damned.

Well, Connor will learn this the hard way.

From-

there, he manages to isolate Hank’s personal cellphone number and replicate it Connor’s texting patterns, emojis and all.

A faked email that Jericho will be expecting Connor this weekend and a request for RSVP guarantees Connor will be away.

An email to bleeding-heart -

Markus that Connor needs a weekend away from Hank, just some space, but to absolutely not ask questions as it’s ‘raw,’ guarantee a confused but accepting Jericho crew.

All that’s left is to lay the trap, and so Sixty does. -

Connor is gone, at least for one night until the flimsy plan falls to waste, and Sixty has texted Hank from the hacked number that he’s cancelled his trip, he’ll be home soon.

Sixty also knows that Friday nights are game nights, and Connor will have allowed Hank to indulge-

in a beer or two or three. He knows this, because Connor takes the pizza boxes and beer cans to the dumpster after the game ends. Sixty is betting that, with Connor away, Hank may indulge himself just a little more than usual.

Sixty is right. Hank is relatively boozed-up when-

he knocks on the door. He still looks...pretty, in that rugged way of his. Sixty knows absolutely why Connor wants this man. He wants him too.

With a cunning smile, he follows after Hank, and his plan goes off without fail. -

[CW: Not graphic: Non-con/Dub-con. Sixty/Drunk!Hank]

If there’s a question as to who Sixty really is, it’s not mentioned. Sex has a way of taking up someone’s attention, especially when they’re loosened up by alcohol. The murmurs of, “Sweet Connor,” and, “My baby boy,” sting-

like a bitch, but Sixty silences them with open-mouth kisses, and well-placed touches.

Hank falls asleep afterward, and Sixty smirks as he browses the incriminating pictures he’s captured perfectly.

He wirelessly prints them, gathers them into an envelope, and leaves-

them at Connor’s desk at the precinct. He’ll likely figure it out eventually, and once he does, he’s sure to work things out with Hank.

For now, Sixty will soothe his aches and anger with the knowledge that 51 will feel just as broken and betrayed as he himself did when he-

believed himself dying on CyberLife’s floor.

What a pain it is to be the make and model of someone else indeed.

~Fin?~

Connor isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with the envelope. He scanned it for fingerprints—none, either gloves were used or this was left by an android. Either is as likely. There doesn’t seem to be any trace of poisonous substance or an/thrax residue, so it appears safe to-

open. By nature, however, a blank envelope tucked into a hidden space at Connor’s po/lice desk ticks all of his criteria for highly suspicious. Never one to cause panic, though, Connor waits until his human is a safe distance away, headed for a fresh cup of coffee, and opens the-

package.

The world slows to a slow, grinding halt in a fraction of a second. Connor’s sure he’s been physically damaged. Why else would his processors be lagging so much...why else would his optical sensors be reporting...this...

Hank is so lovely, as he always is, with-

his head tossed back and his eyes screwed shut. There’s sweat dripping from his hairline down his neck, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion and ecstasy. Whoever is riding him is doing a damn good job of it, satisfying the lieutenant like Connor foolishly believed only he-

could.

There’s a time stamp on the photos, but Connor wouldn’t have needed them anyway—he can tell these are recent just by the hickey on Hank’s left breast. Connor left that one.

This—whoever it is—left others.

They hadn’t really spoken when they arrived at work, just-

going about their usual routine. Connor had returned home early on Saturday, took Sumo out, and made breakfast while Hank showered. He’d had a strange feeling when Hank hadn’t asked him why he’d returned home early from Jericho, seemed almost unbothered by it. Now Connor has to-

believe it’s because he didn’t want to arouse suspicion after...clearly having had someone in their bed the night before.

“Whoa, Connor, are you—“

The android jerks away from Officer Ben’s light touch, his hands flying to cover the pictures and his own shame. It’s a scramble-

to shield the evidence, but he can’t let anyone else see, can’t let anyone know. What will they say? Will they laugh because, of course Hank wouldn’t want to forever settle down with an android, he hated them before—or will they think Connor incapable of satisfying him? It all-

hurts to consider, and Connor just doesn’t want to think. Instead of replying, he rushes past Ben and straight into Captain Fowler’s office, LED blazing red.

“I need a week off, sir. It’s urgent.”

He’s managed to startle the captain, and, if by the inquisitive look on his-

face, he’s startled by the sudden appearance and the request itself. Connor never asks off. In fact, they’re usually begging him to leave when he’s /supposed/ to.

“I can’t see why you can’t use some of your acquired time off... But why so suddenly? Usually I’d enforce-

at least a week’s notice of leave.”

Connor shifts his weight, and the edge of the envelope jabs his synthetic skin where it’s hidden against his fake heart.

“It’s a personal matter, sir...” Connor can’t tell him that he can’t look at Hank right now, that he needs time to Think

about why the other man would do this, and under what circumstances, and process his own complicated Hurt, Pain, Regret, Confusion, Betrayal, Anger, Worry, Agony.

“An android asking for a personal day, huh?” They both seem to catch the blunder at the same time, and perhaps it’s

the captain’s slip into dehumanizing the new citizens of Detroit that seals the deal.

Whatever the case, Connor has his time off, and Hank won’t notice he’s gone for another fifteen minutes—he’ll be throwing taunts back and forth with Reed right now—so Connor has just enough-

time to head home, gather his clothes into a bag, and, since the pictures are seared into his memory, drop the envelope on the kitchen table. Then he leaves.

He’ll stay at Jericho for a while. He’ll think. He’ll cry.

But he won’t speak to Hank. Not for a good while, anyway.

—
Connor won’t answer his calls. This primarily concerns Hank because Connor happens to be missing in action, and also because his phone is connected to his fucking head, so why won’t he answer?

For whatever reason, his partner hasn’t been seen by anyone around the precinct-

since this morning, and Ben mentioned that he’d looked spooked.

What spooks Connor, for fuck’s sake?

Jeffrey only cryptically tells Hank that Connor’s taken the week off. Huh. Just up and left without a word to Hank, and he’s not answering?-

It feels wrong. Bad. Screwy.

Something is amiss, and Hank gets that sinking feeling that maybe Connor is in danger. He can’t think of any other reason he’d fail to contact Hank. So that just makes it even worse.

Hank spends the entire work day in an anxious frenzy, and yeah,-

he speeds on his way home. He just wants to see Connor, to make sure he’s okay. He needs to know Connor isn’t hurt.

He can withstand anything but that.

His worries are not assuaged when he’s greeted by an empty house, just Sumo whining when he greets him, snuffling against-

his calf for attention. Connor isn’t home either.

Hank’s concern grows when he heads to his room, scoping the place out, and Connor’s clothes are gone. It reads like a bad script. Connor’s disappeared and taken his meager belongings with him like he’s afraid Hank would-

come after him or destroy them if not.

He needs a beer. He needs a whole keg, maybe.

He gets neither when he sits down to his kitchen table and opens the blank envelope laying there.

Sex pictures? Ones it looks like Connor took the night before? Hank isn’t sure what or why-

they’re there, but maybe this is some weird, elaborate scene Connor’s concocting. Maybe he’s planning some week-long sexcursion. Hank doesn’t know, but it still doesn’t feel right, and Connor still won’t answer him.

He only gives up when he receives a sharp, “Stop contacting-

800,” from Connor’s so-called younger brother model, Nines.

Something’s definitely wrong. But Hank guesses things were always doomed to end this way where he’s concerned.