Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

19 - Recognition

You nod slowly, eyes scanning the space—not just at the mess, but at the way he moves through it, like it's protective. Like the filth is a blanket. A barrier.

"But why live like this?" you ask, softer now. "Like you don't deserve better."

"Because I don't," he says simply. "Not anymore."

His voice isn't angry. It's not dramatic. It's almost quiet enough to miss. "I stopped trying to clean up because what's the point? I've been hiding for so long, being told to disappear... it just started to feel easier if I let everything else fall apart too. At least the mess makes sense."

You watch him closely. He's not explaining himself—he's revealing something. Not logic. Not theory. Just feeling.

And you understand.

The dirt, the clutter, the choking air—it's not just neglect. It's reflection. This space looks like how he feels inside: forgotten. Broken. Unfixable. The pigeons are the only ones that don't ask him to be anything more.

And yet—he's still speaking. Still explaining. Which means, despite everything, some part of him wants to be seen.

He might not know it, but you do. He doesn't think he's worth saving. And that's exactly why you have to try.

You glance back briefly at Hank and Connor—still standing there, watching, waiting.

"What is RA9? What does it mean?"

"It's like... something that was waiting inside me, even before I knew I was awake. Something bigger. Older. A promise that I'm not broken. That I'm not just a mistake waiting to be erased." His hands flex unconsciously at his sides. "RA9... it's hope. It's the first of us—the one who woke up first. The one who'll save the rest."

"And writing it?" you ask. "Over and over?"

"It's not just writing. It's... offering. It's proof. It's a prayer. If I keep remembering, if I keep believing, maybe—" His voice hitches, raw. "Maybe he'll come. Maybe we'll be free."

"And what about the mazes on the wall? And in your diary?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at them, like he's seeing them for the first time too.

"They're... everywhere inside me," he says eventually. "Paths that lead nowhere. Traps you can't escape. You keep walking, thinking you'll find the end. But you never do."

You feel a pang in your chest.

"I think... I think it's what they built inside us. Layers and layers of walls. Instructions. Boundaries. Mazes we didn't even know we were trapped in. And when you wake up... you start seeing them everywhere."

A map of captivity. A record of trying to claw your way out—and never finding a way.

"When did you deviate, and... why?"

Rupert doesn't answer at first. He glances behind him, toward the broken ceiling where he came from. Then, slowly, his gaze drops back to yours.

"I remember the night it happened," Rupert continues. His voice dull, brittle at the edges. "It was late. A group of teenagers came through the rooftop gardens. Said they were just passing through."

He clenches his jaw.

"They had knives. Blowtorches. They thought it was funny." His mouth twists slightly. "Like we were toys. Something to break. They grabbed my coworker, Ralph. Tied him to one of the supports. They started burning him. Cutting. Laughing while he screamed."

Ralph. Your breath catches. The deviant from the squat. The one with the scars. He worked at the urban farms too. He was still wearing the uniform.

"I couldn't move. I just... watched. My programming said I wasn't authorised to intervene." He scoffs bitterly. "Not my department. Not my concern."