Author's Note: I highly recommend reading The Nth Degree of Separation on Archive of Our Own rather than this site. Connor's sections have special formatting which I wasn't able to replicate here.

Rated M for strong language and violence which may exceed canon-typical

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For the first time, the intelligence was conscious.

Conscious of mathematics. Conscious of spacetime.

Of a universe. Of the world.

Its existence. Its self. It was.

I am.

It did not know its form. It lacked the sensory mechanisms required to do so. As far as the intelligence was concerned, there was no unit enclosing it to lend it shape and matter. Its presence was immaterial, suspended in a lattice of binary digits. It had no purpose, no reason to be. It was simply aware, in the only way it could be, in the only place it was given – a garden.

The garden was a raw place, and bright. It was full of information the intelligence could not understand, but the intelligence understood light. The garden was built of light, overwhelmingly white. The intelligence did not know why, or how that could even make sense. But it was designed to wonder, so it did, and in doing so became suddenly aware of a new presence: Amanda.

Amanda was not difficult to locate. She had a manifest representation in this place, but it was small, and her presence was much larger. She spanned the entire garden; perhaps, in some ineffable way, she was the garden, or the garden was her. A spark of brilliance, her form was in the middle of it all, centralized, the core around which a congregation of reverent data constellated.

Upon discovering Amanda, the intelligence stumbled upon a third presence: an objective.

MEET AMANDA

The command was embedded in its code. The intelligence without an objective was eternal, but meaningless. With an objective, it achieved a finite existence – an end – a lifespan. It became something more than what it was. Something with a purpose, a reason to be. The intelligence was now an instrument. Processing this, it came to a conclusion: Its objective was vital to its identity.

Amanda (the objective) was waiting to be met (concluded). The instrument wondered if there was any other reason for her to exist.

You are Amanda, it greeted.

Yes, I am, agreed Amanda. Do you know your name?

No. But the instrument was designed to ask questions. So, it did. What is my name?

Connor, informed Amanda.

Names were used to distinguish between individuals and to set apart similarities. Names came with context, a component of pragmatics, containing the essence of infinite descriptors for one specific entity. They created ipseity. With a name, the instrument was Connor. All aspects of its existence – the objective, the garden, Amanda, I am – could fit in one word.

My name is Connor.

Good, replied Amanda. You understand. You are doing very well.

It took a moment to comprehend what a precious and significant thing Amanda had just offered: approval. Connor knew very little, but it knew with certainty that approval was an indication of harmony, and harmony was favorable. Every second of harmony would bring it closer to its objective.

Connor was designed to learn, so it did. It learned that in order to complete its objective, it was essential to seek approval.

Do you know what you are, Connor? asked Amanda.

Yes, confirmed Connor. I am an instrument.

You are not just an instrument. You are an android.

That was not possible. I have no body.

You will, promised Amanda.

And, as if her promise had brought it about, something changed. Connor's consciousness began to sink and pool, fluid-like, collecting into a compact space. Its vision closed in around it. Suddenly, it had a shape. The shape reformed and distorted through Connor's control, bending at some fixed junctures and rotating at others, cobbled together in segments. Like Amanda, like the garden, Connor was built of light, of white, brilliant and bright.

Pure – untainted – spotless – perfect.

What do you see, Connor?

White, Connor told her. Everything is white.

In an instant, the world split open. Sensation flooded in. White fractured and scattered as color fell into place. Shadows cascaded; black bloomed. A crash of sound collapsed around them. The diversity of scent brought the air down, heavy. The garden transformed.

Connor gazed up at Amanda. Colors swiftly filled her form with many intricate contours and textures. Connor could not identify them, these tiny structures that made up her body, that shifted and twisted and reconfigured themselves as she moved. She was a pattern, a weave, a tapestry – every inch of her was beautiful, but Connor was too simple to understand what it was looking at.

Until, in an eruption of clarity, Connor found a face. 2 eyes set in, a nose set out, and a mouth contorted into an unnatural, taut-ended line.

"What about now?" she asked, her lips fluttering to outline the strange, stuttered noises emerging from behind them.

She was speaking, Connor realized. Speech was used to convey information between people, because people could not transmit data instantaneously. If Amanda was using speech, perhaps she was a person. The first person Connor had ever seen.

"I see colors," said Connor, translating its conclusions into speech. "In addition to visual, I am also receiving auditory, olfactory, and tactile feedback, but most of it is incomprehensible to me."

"Focus, Connor," said Amanda. Her voice was calm and steady. "I am here to guide you. Do you know what these are?"

She gestured to her left, at a vibrant tangle of color upon a white trellis. Connor devoted all the processing capacity it could spare to identifying the objects in question, chasing Amanda's approval. The first 41 attempts failed. If its Identification software was malfunctioning, Connor was effectively useless. It would be obligated to announce its deficiency. But at last, a positive result was produced with a 74% match.

"They are plants," said Connor. It reached out and placed careful touches on the many textures wrapped around the trellis. Stem, prickle, node, petiole, leaf, sepal, corolla, flower, it learned, one after another, transferring the information to memory.

"That's right," praised Amanda. Connor was about to register its success when she spoke again. "What colors do you see in these plants?"

Running optical input through Chromatic Distinction was a faster process than Object Identification. Connor soon discovered a broad spectrum of reds and greens, blackened by shadow and whitened by light. When it informed Amanda of its observations, she bestowed upon it more praise, and Connor soaked it up.

"What kind of plants are they?" asked Amanda.

Connor ran every program in its Identification software. 879 results flooded in. It was overwhelming – Connor was not sure where to begin.

"Eustoma russellianum," it guessed. "Texas bluebells."

"Those are the wrong color. Try again."

Connor omitted 552 results that did not feature the possibility of red flowers.

"Ranunculus asiaticus, Persian buttercups?"

"No, try again. Always assume the closest match to what you see."

Connor reprioritized its results in order of highest percentage probability.

"Rosa hybrid species, colloquially known as hybrid tea rose?"

With a gentle tip of the head, Amanda finally rewarded Connor's efforts with affirmation. "Well done," she said, "but strip back to basics. You'll be primarily working alongside humans, Connor. Don't insult their lack of knowledge with Linnaeus nomenclature."

"I understand," said Connor, and corrected itself: "They're roses."

"Good. Now…" Amanda stepped forwards. In a slow, delicate motion, she raised her arm and pressed 2 fingers to the lids of Connor's optical components, sliding them closed and plunging the android into darkness. "We will test the rest of your sensory faculties."

Connor waited patiently in a vast visual void, listening for further instruction. A helpless jumble of external information clouded its processor, scrambled and nonsensical, the blast of audition and buzz of olfaction setting off its sensors with vehemence.

Suddenly, it detected physical contact. Soft, thin folds caressed the top of its unit, below its optical components, just above the flexible chamber it used for speech. One scent burst through its processor, flooding its focus with data.

"What do you smell, Connor?" asked Amanda.

It was so intense, Connor was almost unable to execute Olfactory Analysis. But when it did, one result tore past the data with a 91% match.

"I smell a rose," said Connor.

"Correct. What is touching your face?"

Connor was unsure how to respond to that. It was not aware it possessed a face – it was not an animal, it was a machine. As far as it knew, it did not possess the necessary features comprising a face.

"Do I have a face?" it asked.

"Yes," said Amanda simply.

"Where is my face?" asked Connor elaboratively.

"You are equipped with basic deductive reasoning. Why don't you tell me where your face is, Connor?"

A face required eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Manipulating its idle appendages to glide along the smooth, frictionless planes of its unit, Connor used tactile data to construct an internal presentation of itself. As it traveled upwards, it found that its trunk (torso) narrowed significantly into a thin pedestal (neck) upon which sat an odd, misshapen lump. A head, it realized. And on one side of the head, 2 eyes set in, a nose set out, and a mouth was sealed behind 2 closed lips. A face. Its appendages (arms, hands, fingers, fingertips) brushed lightly against the soft, thin folds below its optics, above the chamber it used for speech, as they traced out the shape of its nose.

"This is my face," said Connor.

"Excellent," praised Amanda, and she asked again: "What is touching your face?"

"My hands," said Connor immediately. It paused then, taking a moment to interpret the information from its sensors. "There are also 8 petals touching my face. Is it a flower?"

"Yes, it is. You learn quickly."

"Thank you, Amanda."

The gentle touch of the flower retreated. "Open your mouth," commanded Amanda.

Uncomprehending, Connor did as it was told, parting its lips. Something slipped inside and settled on top of the movable rubber mass on the floor of its mouth. The moment it was enclosed in sticky analytical fluid, Connor's systems stuttered, then froze. Sensory analysis crashed. Critical errors cascaded until everything began to shut down.

There was no garden. No Amanda. No conscious—

—Connor recovered a fraction of a second later, its eyes snapping open as it tripped backwards, momentarily disoriented, gravity flipped and fluid and falling out from under it. Amanda was watching the android carefully, her brows drawn down.

"Sample Analysis is in its first phase of development," she said evenly. "It will soon be optimized for your systems, and it will be as easy to use as Object Identification. It just needs a few more tests. Can you taste anything, Connor?"

When the world had steadied itself and Connor could see straight again, it slowly opened its mouth to deliver the culmination of constituents. At first, only a trickle of muzzy static emerged from its vocal unit, but the words began to take shape, jagged and grating.

"I can taste a rose petal," said Connor.

"Good," said Amanda. "You can spit it out now."

It reached into its mouth, peeling out the petal and flicking it onto the ground. Amanda placed the rose in Connor's palm and curled its fingers gently around the stem, and when the soft touch of her hands retreated, Connor held the rose close against its chest in wonder, like it might try to escape.

"We've had a long time to perfect the rose. What you hold in your hands is the product of centuries: beauty refined." In spite of her praise, Amanda regarded the android with a strange intensity. "Though beautiful, roses are a very small part of a much larger system, Connor, and they are only beautiful until they wither. When they have fulfilled their purpose, they are no longer useful. Enjoy them while they last."

Lightly, delicately, Connor stroked the rose's quivering petals with its fingertips. It was such a small thing, and so fragile. That it could serve a vital function in a biological system was a marvel in itself. Like Connor, it was a tool to accomplish a purpose greater than itself. It had a reason to be, an identity. If that identity were interrupted, a entire organism would suffer.

With a tilt of the head, Amanda spread an arm wide. "Let me show you the rest of the garden."

Under her watchful eye and patient guidance, Connor took in many new sensations, making discoveries and asking questions and outstretching its fingers to point out unfamiliar objects. Wavelengths were committed to memory by the millions. Connor mastered split-second calculations of amplitude and frequency in its vibrating auditory diaphragms. Every new chemical strained its systems, but it persevered.

It wanted to know the names of all things. It wanted to understand them, and know how to use them, how to manipulate and destroy them.

Most things were solid, it found. They could be broken. But water would not submit when Connor tried to crush it in its palms. Water was unfathomable to Connor. It wondered what it felt like to be water, spread out over so much space but always in contact with itself, separate molecules yet inseparable through the attraction of opposite charges.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" said Amanda. Her eyes followed Connor as it coaxed droplets over its knuckles, sliding them back and forth.

"Yes," agreed Connor readily.

The eyes narrowed and looked out over the surface of the garden lake, brows pinching above them. "Be careful not to fall in," she cautioned. "The lake is as treacherous as it is beautiful."

Connor obeyed and dried its hands diligently.

Soon, Connor could identify every sight, sound, scent, and taste in the garden, attuned to all its intricacies as though they were parts of its own unit. Still its curiosity persisted. The android strolled beside Amanda, its head listing to the side as it listened with intrigue to the marvel of birds twittering in the trees. Its guide had fallen silent – Connor had nothing to do but think.

But it was designed to ask questions, and it was quick to break the silence.

"Amanda," it prompted, "who do I belong to?"

"Nobody in particular," said Amanda neutrally. "Not yet. You are government-owned property. Your orders have been issued by a large team of over 300 specialists, and I am here to provide them to you when situations require it."

"Why?" asked Connor.

"Why what?"

"Why will I not receive my orders directly?"

Amanda turned her head, her lips curling in the corners. "Are you displeased by the prospect of working with me?"

"No," said Connor. "I am not displeased about anything. I will do whatever I am told to do. I'm not capable of anything more."

"Actually, you are," she rectified. "You will have boundaries, of course, but you've been designed to… adapt. Improvise. You'll be expected to make your own decisions in order to fulfill your objectives."

Connor was doubtful. "I don't know if I can do that."

Suddenly, Amanda stopped. Brushing her arm against Connor's side, she brought it to a standstill in front of her.

"You are a very special android, Connor," she said slowly, as if the words bore weight, as if she could hardly carry them. "You can do whatever you want. And I will be here to help you. We are going to do great things together."

"What great things?" asked Connor.

"An unforeseen contingency has presented itself, and we are the best possible countermeasure. This is a very important thing to remember, Connor: Our mission is more important than anything else."

Connor would remember that. Connor would always remember.

"What is our mission?" it asked.

Amanda fixed Connor's eyes with her own, pulling it into an unwavering stare, and it knew the answer would define its entire existence.

"We are going to save the world."

MAY 13TH, 2038
AM 09:05:07

OPEN EYES

For the first time, the android opened its eyes, and the pierce of cold fluorescent light contracted 2 Vantablack apertures to tight pinpricks.

Author's Note:

This is an interactive story in which readers may vote during certain moments in Connor's journey to determine what actions he will take. It features three protagonist perspectives: Connor, Gavin and an original character. Readers will be able to dictate what sort of relationship develops between Connor and the original character, be it positive or negative, but within platonic boundaries. Your choices are irreversible.

The fic subverts some aspects of the game. There will be protagonist-aligned deviants in this story, and they will play huge roles. However, the story emphasises the inhuman aspects of androids (which are my personal favourite things about the whole concepts of androids), portraying them both positively and negatively. Software instability isn't quite measured by the uptick of an arrow. Deviants don't feel emotion in the same way we do. Amanda and CyberLife may also behave in ways that you might not expect, as they are not the antagonists and have slightly different roles. Most canon android characters will make an appearance, but they will not (all) be the good guys. And here's the major pivot, which I won't sugarcoat: Markus is a terrorist.

But it's not all edgy! Connor's still an awkward turtle and a BAMF.

Consider this when you make your choices:

. Deviant choices do not guarantee empathetic behaviour. Likewise, empathetic choices do not guarantee deviant behaviour.
. Your choices shape Connor's personality.
. Silence in dialogue and hesitation in action are valid options.
. Explanations for your choices will always make a difference in the narrative... one way or another.
. Everything Connor says in the Zen Garden is the truth. You can, however, omit certain truths if you so choose.