interlinked (connorxreader)

2. Carlos Ortiz

"Correct," Connor answers.

Glancing at the floor, you watch as he follows a trail of erratic spatters of blue, blindly leading Hank and yourself down the hall and before the bathroom. He opens a curtain serving as a flimsy closet door, spilling sticks of cleaning products with a clatter. Ignoring his mess, Connor steps over them and kneels before the wall, tracing his pointer finger along an imaginary line and even collecting some dust. Straightening himself, he squeezes past his "supervisors" and quickly snatches a chair from the kitchen table. Forcing way again through the narrow hall, he places it down in front of the closet and stands.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing with that?" Hank barks.

Connor, too focused on the ceiling, responds without missing a beat. "I'm going to check something."

Intrigued, you only cross your arms and watch as he pushes open a latch in the ceiling, removing the cover leading into the attic. Connor, you realize, is quite taller than you'd cared to notice, pulling himself up into the crowded space effortlessly.

Disappearing into the darkness above, Hank shakes his head in disbelief and walks off again, most likely to find someone else to hound.

Just as you're about to do the same (minus the 'hounding'), a light in the bathroom pops in the corner of your vision. Poking your head in, you see it's an evidence marker placed on the shower floor. You scour the bathroom nook from the doorway, trying to make sense of the gibberish that covered the shower walls top to bottom. You had completely sidelined the room after Hank arrived, it being so insignificant to you at the time. But looking at it now, you couldn't shake the unsettling feeling the scene brought to you. It appeared as though someone had a manic episode in this quiet corner of the house. Something in the back of your head told you to walk away – to leave it alone, it didn't require your attention, but another part of you was pulling you in.

It wasn't a difficult decision, your nosy meddling was never fond of putting you in ideal situations – quite the opposite, actually. Therefore, you hesitantly step into the worn bathroom, your eyes carving into the writing on the walls.

rA9... It was obsessively repeated over every surface and crevice in the shower, different sizes and levels of erratic scribbling, but always the same three characters. In the middle of the shower floor, perfectly aligned atop the drain, was a wooden sculpture carved into a humanoid form. You lean down and pick it up, overestimating its weight. It was much lighter than you expected, as if it weren't solid on the inside. The carving was smooth, but the raw form itself was rough and simple in its shape, not too detailed. You've never seen such an artifact before and the perfect writing variations in CyberLife Sans didn't insinuate any human involvement. This led you to the assumption that the android most likely fell into this compulsive behavior following the murder – perhaps the shellshock after such an event?

rA9. You don't like a lot of things, it's a phrase you say often. But truer words had never been spoken than when you established this fact of your own personal feelings on the newfound evidence. You have no clue what it could mean, but the wild conclusions in your mind were as good as anyone else's guess. However, before you could drive yourself down that rabbit hole of theories, Hank's voice wreaks through the halls and reverberates across the bathroom tiles and to your ears.

"Connor! The fuck is going on up there?"

You stand and peek over your shoulder, Hank standing next to the chair beneath the hole leading into the attic. Connor had gone eerily quiet, nor his footsteps or voice responding to the Lieutenants call.

It didn't take a cop's instinct to understand something was wrong, the usually talkative android was concerningly quiet. You creep towards the chair, putting one foot on it to pull yourself up before Connor's muffled voice breaks through a blanket of shadow.

"It's here, Lieutenant!"

"Holy shit," Hank mutters. His eyes are open in utter shock, stuttering a small step back, then two, before shouting, "Chris, get your ass up there!"

Hank might as well have ordered you as well with the way you shoot up and through like a damn jack-in-the-box, wasting absolutely no time in squeezing and scurrying between dusted junk in heightened anticipation.

A deviant. You've found one.

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 Imogen Heap and TV Girl are the only things keeping me up and motivated as I write this in the middle of the night. I'm like a granny with my early bedtime.

On that note, Happy Thanksgiving! I'm taking my ass to bed now.

– Word Count, 3855