Triumpha

Walking out of the elevator, its walls covered in graffiti and scratched out inscriptions, I feel a sudden emptiness behind my back and turn around. “Connor.” The android opens its eyes; its LED blinks from yellow back to blue. “You ran out of juice or what?” “I’m sorry. I was making a report to CyberLife” “Alright, you’re not planning on waiting for me in the elevator, aren’t you?” “No! I’m coming.” Shrugging, I walk down the corridor reading the faded numbers of the apartments. In a moment I hear steps behind me. “What do we know about this guy?” I ask. “Not much. Just that a neighbor reported that he hard strange noises coming from this floor. Nobody’s supposed to be living here, but the neighbor said he saw a man hiding a LED under his cap.” The old eight-story building looks downright dangerous to inhabit. The lower floors seem to be at least a little bit more maintained, but here the paint is peeling off the walls in huge chunks and light wind whistles through the broken glasses

I expect Manfred to come out in the corridor in front of his son’s room when the nurse goes inside to inform him about our arrival; in a moment though, she returns, holding the door for me with a nod. Passing her, I enter the one person hospital room lit by the November sun. Connor follows me inside and stops by the door. The elderly man in the wheelchair by the bed looks as if he hasn’t had any sleep – which is probably just about right. His face is pale and haggard, with deep dark shades under the eyes. For a moment, he remains still, staring at the motionless face of the young man in the bed, an IV system attached to his hand and a bandage on his forehead, but the elderly gentleman lifts his eyes just as I take my badge out. “Mr. Manfred, my name is Jenna Malkovich, and I’m a sergeant from DPD. I’m sincerely sorry to bother you in such time, but I have to ask you several questions related to the deviant behavior in some androids that we’re investigating. I’ll be as quick as I can

Waking up is hardly any better than falling asleep, but still hints that I wasn’t hurt badly, since only 2-3 seconds after opening my eyes I’m able to recall last night’s events. Not that it gives me any head start. My body is numb, my joints are aching and when I roll to the side, my cheek touches a moist spot on the pillow. I lift my head to look at it – thankfully, it’s not blood; seems like someone’s been drooling in their sleep. Charming. Perfect start for the fuckity-fucked-up day ahead; rubbing my eyes with a sigh, I push myself to crawl from under the blanket and start moving. Not much use in rolling in self-pity. Fifteen minutes later, after a quick shower and a short staring at my especially unpleasant face in the mirror today, I enter the other room, a combined kitchen/living room. I’m met by a surprising sight – Connor in front of the sink, washing the dishes left in it since the day before, I think. Its suit jacket and tie are hanging on the back of one of the chairs next

The awakening resembles a slow extrication from sticky mud. It takes me several blinks to get the picture in focus, and for the smudged colorful blots to turn into street lamps and shady side alleys. Another blink and I realize that I’m in the passenger seat of a car, my head leaning against the door. The passenger seat is on the left side – which means that it’s not an automated taxi or a police car. It’s not even one made in the US. It’s terribly cold, I deduce when my brain registers the fact that my whole body is shaking. The heat doesn’t seem to be working, though the sign on the dashboard is lit. What’s worse is that my clothes are soaked. Details start surfacing in my foggy consciousness. The chase across the unstable metal bridges, the blow that threw me over the railing, the bang and splash, and the freezing darkness… Couple more shaky breaths and new details start making their way through the mire in my head. I realize that Connor’s suit jacket covers my torso, the indicative

“The chef was found on the kitchen floor, his skull smashed with the frying pan in the photo, obviously while he was getting ready for the beginning of the shift.” I slide the holofoil forward and tap the image with my finger. The more grotesque part of the scene is hidden in this exact shot, but the man’s hand is at the forefront, about 20 centimeters from the handle of the pan lying upside down on the ground. The matted from usage metal is “decorated” with a blood stain. “No fresh fingerprints were found neither on the pan, nor on the surface around though.” The android not only refuses to speak, but avoids looking at me, too. Like all of them, it’s young-looking, with well-defined Asian features and short black hair. His waiter uniform – black suit trousers, white shirt and black vest with its name – William – written in elegant font above the small chest pocket – is covered in dust and cobwebs. While unsuccessfully trying to get any information from it, I manage to take a more

The 20-minute ride in the busy traffic to Ravendale and another 10 minutes of asking around the neighborhood lead us to a motel that could easily be mistaken with tens of other similar places all around the city. Behind the desk, a black man in his 50s looks a little startled when we walk inside. I show him my badge. "Sergeant Malkovich, Detroit Police. We're looking for a female android that robbed a store down the street last night. You seen anything?" "An android? No... I don't take androids here." Next to me, Connor raises its hand and a small holographic image of the wanted AX400 appears in front of its palm. "Have you seen anyone that looks like this?" "Fuck...," the owner exclaims. "I knew there's something weird about her. She came in last night – she was dressed normal, you know... There was no way I could tell." "Is it still here?" I ask. "Yeah, probably," the man points to the opposite wing of the building. "Room 28." "Thank you," I reply before walking outside where I take