ANGELEYES, dbh connor

NINE

RAISE HELL
━━━━━━(●'ω｀●)━

THE INSIDE OF THE apartment is just like the outside: crumbling, dark, and smelling of rotting animal corpses. It's not that you're surprised by the living conditions, and they don't exactly affect you, but you can see Connor and Hank's discomfort plain on their faces.

"Uh, looks like we came for nothin'," grumbles Hank in a disappointed tone of voice.

You shake your head in disagreement, "There's been a Deviant here at one point and I believe it may still be here. The murals written on the wall in the other room are too perfect to be drawn by a human hand."

You walk toward a book-shelf and study it. A driver's license catches your attention. With gentle fingers, you pick it up and stare at the image.

SCANNING...

It's fraudulent. It says it belongs to a man called Rupert Travis but he doesn't exist on any of Detroit's license data-bases, at least not with that face and serial number.

"The driver's license is fake," you say and catch Connor staring at you from the corner of your vision.

He smiles, "Good job, Y/N!"

"At least we didn't come for nothin'," says Hank in a grumbly tone.

You continue to look around.

"Huh," Connor says. When you turn to face him, you see that he's holding an old military jacket up in his hands. "R.T... Must be initials."

Hank scoffs in disbelief. "He put his initials on his jacket? That's something your mum does for you when you're in first grade... What a weirdo..."

"Good job, Connor," you say, with a polite smile.

The Detective lights up like a Christmas tree and smiles widely. ⍓

You quickly glance away.

For a moment, you wonder what it'd be like to have your initials stitched into your blazer. But then you remember that, as an Android, you don't have a last name, and that thought leads you to wonder how the Deviant chose his last name, Travis.

Was it, perhaps, his owner's last name? Maybe that could help you.

You slowly walk around the room, trying to see any areas you might've missed. Eventually, you make your way to the bathroom. Green streaks of mold grow between each grungey, dirty-white tile, and it's only another reason why no human could ever live here.

You look into the sink. Oh?

Blue stains the bottom of the ceramic sink and you drag a finger through the liquid. It's faded so you guess it's old enough that the human eye can't pick up on it.

You bring your finger to your lips and sample the thirium. It belongs to a WB200 model that was reported missing about two years ago.

"So... Does thirium have a taste? I mean, you seem to like eating it," Connor says from behind you with a cheeky smile, and he sounds a mixture of disturbed and intrigued.

You turn around to face him and you're surprised by how close he suddenly stands. He's very tall, so in reality, your faces aren't that close, but you can easily smell the classy cologne surrounding him like a bubble.

He hesitates before stepping back, away from you. His freckled cheeks are a little pinker than they were a moment before.

"No," you say and turn back around, quickly, to face the sink again, "not exactly. Taste isn't something I have the ability for, but I suppose I could say thirium tastes like the information associated with it. And every sample has a different flavor."