A/N: Guys. I'm so sorry, you have no idea. I'm not sure if anyone is even still realistically following this, but I did say I wasn't giving up on it. Here's to not having time to write, ahaha. No promises on an expected release for the next chapter, but it will come eventually, I promise. Cheers to you all!

Connor arrives at One Campus Martius Garage at 03:27 am, a thin layer of snow on his coat and a still-silent communication to Markus prickling in his processor. He'd passed the scene of the shooting during his walk over, and there had been no bodies, no remnants of the event at all save the traces of thirium collected in his scan, long evaporated and dusted with snow.

He wonders, as he enters the garage and shakes the snow from his shoulders, where they are, what happened to them. It's very unlike the DPD to clean up so quickly, relocating the evidence without first spending time to analyze it. Then again, though… the city's a disaster. The DPD may not be operating under normal protocol in the evacuation. He lets the realization swirl for a moment, validates it, and slides the beanie off to shake out, too. Flakes fall to the concrete in fat, light clumps.

When he next looks up, there are 14 pairs of eyes staring at him.

None of them belong to Markus, nor Simon, Josh, or even North. Connor blinks and registers six AP700s, two ST300s, four PC200s, one TE600, and one YK500 with wide eyes, staring at him as she folds every limb behind one of the ST300s and clings to her dark skirt. The ST300 places a pale hand on her small shoulder and angles her head in Connor's direction, more in acknowledgment of his presence, he thinks, than a real greeting of any kind.

Connor remains still, frozen, everything in him seemingly halted under their silent observation. Behind them, 379 more mill around the lower floor, standing, sitting, aiding others; LEDs blinking a silent conversation he isn't a part of. But these 14… stare, faces completely unreadable. Connor feels the weight of their judgment, their waiting, and allows it, knowing somewhere in his processor that he deserves whatever they think.

"…You," one of the AP700s says, the first to speak aloud. Connor's fingers twitch around the beanie, almost dropping it. He concentrates on the scratchy, old fabric, turning his head to meet the familiar eyes, the familiar face. The same face that had held a gun to his forehead less than 24 hours ago, red LED spinning and spinning and smiling and—

Connor returns to himself, tense, unsteady, something wound tight near his regulator. It's not fear, not quite, not nearly so debilitating or sharp, but it's there.

Stress Level: ^23%

He sighs. Nods. Once. Moving helps. The AP700's LED spins yellow, a smooth, singular rotation that pings around the group of six before they all stand. He blinks, and they leave, scattering themselves until the 379 grows to 385, and Connor's processor belongs to him again.

"We weren't sure you were coming back," the ST300 says, and though her voice is calm she visibly pushes the YK500 a little farther behind her. One of the girl's eyes locks with Connor's, unblinking. He notices it's the same shade of brown as his own before her face disappears behind the ST300 completely.

Connor folds the beanie into a neat, near-perfect square, restless, suddenly. "I… need to speak with Markus," he says, because this group is clearly survivors of Jericho, and they might know.

One of the PC200s clears her throat, and Connor finds himself pivoting to give her his full attention, placing the beanie carefully into a pocket and letting his hands hang at his sides. Loose, unthreatening. He thinks about his quarter and wonders if Markus kept it somewhere safe.

"…haven't seen him in a while," she's saying, stuffing her hands sharply into the pockets of her fraying coat, eyes dark beneath a cap barely hiding the edge of her LED whirling a pale, serious blue. Her eyes run over him, and Connor remembers the functions of the PC200s: police, common duty patrols, lack of force. None of the assembled, really, are designed for any kind of action.

He logs himself as the most dangerous among them, and recoils inward a bit further.

Sending…

I'm here. Can we talk?

Nothing. Connor blinks. His regulator stutters. Still no Markus.

He adjusts the sleeve of his jacket out of habit. Button, cuff, fold, shift. A pattern.

He doesn't have time to stay and talk. If I am going to help them, I must find Markus. Connor's processor whirs; logically, Markus will be on the higher levels, if he's here at all, in a meeting discussing plans or next moves, following the gunfire. He takes a step back, hands still at his sides.

Priority Selected

The PC200's eyes narrow, but neither she or the ST300 move to stop him. They couldn't, he knows, even if they tried. "Thank you anyway," he says, and spins on a heel, the weight of eight stares on his back as he leaves.

It's not a subtle observation by any means, and Connor finds it takes him until he has reached the third flight of stairs before he feels even faintly in control of his own movements. He runs a finger along the inside of his wrist, feeling the connection of sleeve to synthetic skin, and takes a long, entirely useless breath. The sound of his feet echoes in the stairwell, loud against the sensation crackling in his processor, the linger of their gazes.

Stress Level: ^30%

He reaches the eighth floor with a rapid twitch to his regulator that is altogether unconnected to the climb, and clenches his hands empty at his sides. The first thing he will ask of Markus is to return his quarter. He will need it to think clearly.

He begins walking. The eighth floor is busier than the first, and Connor pulls the beanie from his pocket again and drags it low over his forehead, shrugging his shoulders deeper into Hank's coat and scanning the crowd from a selected corner.

Analyzing…

519 androids

248 alert

271 dormant

No Markus.

His eyes flicker sideways. The more time wasted searching, the greater opportunity for another attack. Connor considers sending another message before deciding against it. He rises off the wall he'd been leaning against and proceeds around the edge of the crowd, head lowered, hands tucked into his pockets, attempting to avoid unnecessary attention.

He makes it as far as the opposite stairwell, observing the extra height of it, before a figure steps into his path.

Connor raises his gaze to meet the dull amber of North's, and his hands inside his pockets tighten to fists. He hadn't noticed her presence in his scan. "North," he says, by way of greeting, deliberately loosening his shoulders. She folds her arms across her chest and stares at him, mouth curled into a frown.

The stairs, he notes, as the sound of the door closing echoes between them. She came from the stairs.

"Connor." His name in her voice is distinctly colder as her eyes drift over him, all the way from the top of his head to the laces on his shoes. He stays still, waiting. "Why are you here?"

He maintains the same tone. "I must speak with Markus." She blinks when he says it, but he continues. "He is not responding to my communications."

She narrows her eyes and takes a step closer. He's taller than her, but she fills up the space in front of him, face gone taut. "Oh?" she asks, something tugging on the end of the word. "And so even though he clearly doesn't want to speak to you, you're here anyway."

His regulator skips. But that means Markus is alive, at least.

Connor blinks. "I was concerned something may have happened to him, given last night's… events. I did not think that—"

North cuts him off. "No, you didn't think, did you?" she says, tilting her head. Connor registers it as a very human thing to do, but refrains from saying so. "He's closed communication to everyone. You can't just marchin as if everything's fine, because it's not," she continues. "You're not supposed to be here." Her voice is even, but Connor understands the android-stillness with which she stands. Her voice isn't the only thing she's keeping under control.

He doesn't move, in turn, something spinning in his processor. Closed to everyone… what is he doing? "No? But I still must speak with him. He—"

"—doesn't need your help," North says flatly, straightening, blinking. "He's dealing with enough as it is, after the mess you made last night."

Connor shifts his shoulders. She isn't wrong. However… He thinks of the androids downstairs, protecting each other, once again under attack. This time, he can help instead of adding to their fear. This time, he doesn't have to be the thing they run from. They… don't need to like him, not really. So long as he can help. "I am not implying he needs it," he says coolly, flicking his gaze over her. "I am here to offer assistance, if he wants it."

By their new, fragile rights, Markus will have access to the victims, or at least know what has been done with them. Connor is built to analyze crime scenes. Markus might be the exalted leader of the revolution, the reason any of them are free at all, but he doesn't have Connor's forensic scanner, his blood analyzer, his unaltered access to sealed DPD case files and programmed android reinitialization.

Markus hadn't had a pistol pressed to his forehead the previous night.

He does need me.

The lie had been said with little difficulty.

North taps irregularly at the inside of her arm with a finger, frown deepening. "Why should I trust you?" she demands. "Because I don't, after everything that's happened. You should know that." She takes a step closer to him, so their faces are 2.96 inches apart, and her voice is colored with something nearly identical to the tone Amanda used whenever he returned empty-handed.

"I know what you almost did on the podium, Connor, I saw you. I don't know why you stopped, what changed your mind, but you had a gun pointed at Markus's back and you were going to kill him." Her teeth are clenched together, an unfamiliar light in her eyes. Connor can slowly feel his regulator increasing, stuttering. "Markus may not know; you may have fooled him, but you haven't fooled me. You can play the victim in this all you want, but I know the truth. And I don't trust you."

Stress Level: ^44%

She's too close to him. Everything feels suddenly heavy, as if he's being crushed beneath the unseen weight of her words and the distance between them. Connor clenches his fingers, too tight,

WARNING: Minor Structural Damage to

-#6124

-#6125

Self-Repair Commencing…

but he doesn't drop her stare. He hadn't thought anyone had seen that moment, when he had felt control slipping out of his processor, trails of code escaping his commands, splintering at the edges. Everything he had just discovered was being stolen, ripped away, and it had been so cold—

Connor blinks. North's face is blank, eyes searching. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

Twice in one day.

Her eyebrows rise, waiting. "Huh. I was hoping you'd at least try to defend yourself."

She's still too close. On instinct, his processor sparks, planning some kind of escape, by whatever means necessary.

Preconstructing…

Success

Success

Success

There are many options. None he's going to use, as they all contradict his goal, but it soothes something to know they exist. That he can get out, if he absolutely must.

He forces looseness into his shoulders, his arms, his fingers. The rush of repair washes over his palms. "It was… a last obstacle." To freedom. "It will not happen again."

Never again. He won't be forgetting the sight of the gun aimed at an ally, at Markus. Ever. He deliberately ignores the weight of Hank's pistol at his back.

North huffs a laugh. It's not the reaction he was expecting. "I didn't almost kill a friend," she hisses, hands flexing from where her arms are still crossed, and Connor finds himself wondering what she had done. "You—"

The crackle of an open-channel frequency makes her stop, the connection buzzing in the back of Connor's head.

Received: That's enough.

…Markus.