My Name is Connor

5

DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT

1, FEBRUARY 2043 - 00:08:07

-WINTER-

---

Androids don't breathe.

Androids don't need to breathe.

But we do need air.

We need it to cool our systems and regulate certain vital functions.

It's always there and always available in an endless supply.

So why do I feel like I can't get any?

I can't look away, either.

I can't.

I can't.

I can't.

No matter how hard I try.

It's like looking in a mirror.

A mirror that shows an impossible reality.

But it is real.

It's so terrifyingly real.

He's real.

RK900.

My replacement.

It seemed like a myth Amanda came up with as a scare tactic to get me to do my job right. But alas, here he is, standing stiffly in front of me.

The R900 is standing right there, staring down at me with curious grey eyes.

"May I help you with something, young one?" he asks, his voice eerily similar to the one I used to have, if not slightly deeper, "Your stress levels are unusually high".

Still, I can't speak.

I make an odd, garbled, gasping sound and stumble back, yelping in surprise when I hit the side of a desk, causing things to topple off the edge.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

"Shit, take it easy, Alex," Hank says, trying to calm me down, but the moment his hand touches my shoulder, I panic even more.

"No, no no!" I yell, falling to my knees and covering my eyes and ears.

I keep gasping, desperate for air.

This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening.

T H I S   I S N ' T   R E A L

"Gavin, call off your attack dog," Hank continues, trying to pry my hand away from my face, "It's freaking the kid out. Alex... Alex, come on, it's okay, kiddo".

It isn't helping, he isn't helping, why isn't he helping?

Hank always help me calm down.

"No, no no no," I continue, my LED spiraling into a dangerous red.

My stress it too high, and I can't get it down.

The other officers are taking notice now, a few crowding around the desk I'm huddled next to.

^WARNING STRESS LEVEL 87% & RISING^

"Don't touch him," the RK900 says, calm and collective, his footsteps edging closer to me, "You'll only stress him more".