Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

19 - Recognition

Then, quietly, "Why?"

The question hangs in the car, heavier than the rain clouds overhead. Neither of them are looking at you. But both are waiting.

"Because someone has to."

You feel them shift slightly—listening. You breathe in, slow. Careful.

"Because if we only protect the people who fit into neat little boxes... the ones who follow all the rules, who look the right way, act the right way... then all we're doing is protecting the world that broke them in the first place."

You glance sideways, catching a flash of Hank's frown. Connor stays still. Silent.

"I don't think that's justice. I think that's fear dressed up as law."

For a long moment, no one says anything. The soft hum of the engine fills the silence.

Then Hank exhales, a rough, conflicted sound. "But... are they people?"

"They think they are," you say evenly. "Isn't that enough to matter?"

Connor's hands tighten slightly on his knees. His LED spins yellow. "They're machines. Designed to emulate humanity. I was designed to emulate humanity." He speaks with the sharpness of someone trying to convince himself.

"And humans were 'designed' by what, exactly?" you ask softly. "Accident? Chaos? Does it make their feelings less real?"

"It's a lot to wrap your head around," Hank mutters. "I mean, did we really create life? Or just... a fuckin' mirror that looks smart 'cause it's following code? People say AI's smarter than us—but hell, is it really thinking? Or is it just... getting better at pretending?"

You clench your fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms. Because you know.

You know.

You're sitting right there, breathing, thinking, feeling—proof that they're wrong. But you can't shout it at them, can't tear yourself open and show them what's inside.

You just have to sit there, silent, while they argue over whether your life—your existence—is even real.

"I don't know anymore," Connor says, voice lower. "I thought I understood the difference. I thought it was simple. Programmed. Predictable." He exhales sharply through his nose. "But it's not. None of this is simple."

He leans forward slightly, his hands clasped loosely together. "This was the first time we've seen deviants blending in with the human population, who knows how many others there are like it?"

The words hang in the air—and you feel the ripple it causes inside him, even if he doesn't show it. You watch him. The way the realisation pokes at something deep

You almost smile at the bitter irony of it. If only they knew. If only they realised they were sitting next to one already.

For a long second, you don't say anything. You just let the quiet settle.

And then, "You wouldn't be sitting there wondering if it wasn't real."

You all return to the precinct.

Nobody talks much. You go through the motions—paperwork, reports.

Connor keeps glancing at you like he wants to say something, but never does.

The hours pass in a low thrum of strain and exhaustion. Your shifts end, and Hank disappears down the hall without a word.

The station is almost dead now. You check your internal clock. 7:34PM.