interlinked (connorxreader)

2. Carlos Ortiz

Breaking his own train of focus, Hank gives you a disgruntled look over his shoulder. The old man was never one to appreciate your sense of humor.

"No, no trouble at all," Connor reassures.

Settling not to test Hank's patience (for now), and wanting to limit your interactions with Connor, you turn back to Ortiz's corpse, giving Connor one last small smile before resuming your work. "Good."

Hank, ever the saint, internally forgives your petty jab and pays the android no mind as he gestures to the yellowed wall. "What do you think? Handwriting's way too perfect, no human writes like this."

"It's CyberLife Sans," you note. "It was most definitely an android."

Hank shrugs, a semi-pleased expression breaking through his mask of gloom. Turning back to the room, he shouts, "Chris!"

The young cop cuts his conversation with one of the forensics guys short, instead pivoting his attention to the two of you. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Jerking his head to the wall, Hank asks, "Is this written in the victim's blood?"

"It's likely; we're taking samples for analysis right now," he states, furiously tapping away on his little tablet. You already knew the answer, the analysis was simply to serve as medical and legal confirmation for paperwork's sake. And so you opt to tune them out, their voices dimming to background chatter as you look back over the scattered crime scene. Curiously, you notice Connor bent over the knife on the floor, his fingers gently grazing upwards the handle. You momentarily debate warning him not to touch the evidence, but refrain from doing so after mentally smacking yourself on the head. Androids don't have fingerprints. This is quite literally his job anyway. So you, once again, watch him instead, nitpicking his programmed method of investigation.

What is he...?

"Oh– Oh my God!"

Your hand instinctively snaps to your mouth, shoulders tensed in astoundment. Chris and Hank pause mid-conversation to look at you, looking to find the cause of your sudden outburst. Hank's eyes impendingly follow your line of sight to the figure crouched before you, his face contorting into one of disgust.

"Ah Jesus, what the hell are you doing!"

Connor, now standing at attention, casually holds two red-stained fingers out towards the Lieutenant, having swiped and licked the blood from the weapon's blade.

"I'm analyzing the blood," he calmly explains, motioning towards the knife like it were some common everyday task. "I can check samples in real time." Silence. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

This answer most certainly does not ease Hank's disgust—nor yours—but nonetheless, he only furiously nods his head. "Ok, just... don't... put any more evidence in your mouth, you got it?"

"Got it."

"Fucking hell, I can't believe this shit..." the Lieutenant mutters as he exits the living room. Chris, more disturbed than anything, stays silent and leaves to return back to his own tasks.

A little taken aback still, you tug your shirt sleeves down your hands and clutch your coat a bit tighter. And you thought his visual analysis was creepy. Recollecting yourself, you start for the kitchen and take an abrupt right to the back door. Pushing open the dingy plank of wood, a rush of frigid, November air refreshes your skin as you're bombarded with small kisses of rain.

You look out into the neglected yard, Chris' lanky form shuffling his way past you and onto the withered, mushed grass. You are more reluctant to step out into the open, figuring Chris can do the "dirty" work on his own and you can stay under the rackety eave. You don't like mud much. The grass is overgrown and largely patchy, overwhelmed with yellowed weeds. The fence is in no better shape, jagged and uneven, various holes breaking the neat uniform of the structure. The paint is peeled and some areas have even begun to show signs of rot.