Cold, merciless, white neon cast the dark street in an unnatural glow, staining everything a sickly pale as it stretched fervently to lay claim to the land and slip in where darkness once prevailed but its stretching arms failed to ever make it farther than the glass window its source lay trapped within. The flickering sign, buzzing into dimness with an electronic hum only to glare its way blazingly back into existence a moment later with the distinct sound of sparks, read Jimmy’s Bar, as did the noncomentable bold print letters stamped undecoratively across the large wooden door Hank stood before.

No window to peep through existed on the sturdy, wooden surface of the thick built door, the only thing daring to disrupt the graying surface of the unwelcoming gateway a flimsy paper flyer that crinkled noisily as a texturless wind tore at its edges and threatened to rip the weak scrap free from its home. Hank brushed his fingers lightly against the flyer in an attempt to smooth it back out, trailing his fingertips along the bold, red text screaming an angry “No Pets” out at anyone who dare defy its unspoken warning.

The paper uncooperatively folded back over itself in the hold of the unfeelable breeze once more, a sensation that wasn’t quite there ghosting across the android's sensors where artificial chill should be whipping across them - Programmed incorrectly.

Because that’s what this place was: Programmed.

Hank placed a large hand against the cool metal plate melding smoothly into the ivory exterior of the door - Too smoothly, no definition existing between the two entirely separate materials. Programmed incorrectly - and pushed against it, the wood moving compliantly under his grip to give way to the bar beyond with the barest touch of his shoulder to the heavy barrier.

The interior of the bar was dark, dimly lit by only a single row of overhead lights trailing above a tall wooden counter and a few vaguely glowing bulbs positioned behind the bar itself to highlight the glimmering bottles there, the weak illumination set in an odd green cast that gave everything a murky aura that left little clearly distinguishable. Though, not everything in the bar was designed with enough care to be entirely distinguishable anyway and looking at any background object for too long a time hurt even Hank’s mechanical eyes.

The bar was empty, as it always was, but a vague soundtrack offered the noise one might expect to hear in a crowded bar in the inner city nevertheless. The sound of wood screeching against tile echoed through the still air yet not a single bar stool moved. The gurgle of a drink being poured bubbled merrily from the nearest booth where the poorly lit tables lined the wall but the slightly blurry glass that flickered on the edges remained perfectly empty where it sat on the wooden surface. The sounds of people talking echoed quietly through the empty room and the electronic beeps and cheerful dings of the arcade machine flickering over the same three basic panels in the far corner of the room rose and fell as if someone just won a game yet the same picture still shone through the screen and no one stood at the controls.

It was if someone had designed a level of a video game then dropped the project before adding the character overlay.

One, tangible object existed in the nearly abandoned bar, however, solid and crystal clear where everything else was a gentle blur of laziness meant to meld gently into a vague scene unimportant to the main objective. A man of large build, dark skinned and balding, sat atop one of the high rise bar stools, gaze fixed to where a small screen hung behind the bar and flickered unsteadily through what appeared to be a Detroit Gears game, though buzzing static ran over the illuminated screen every few moments to hide the image and distort the announcers’ voices into a choppy, electronic mess of buzzy sounds and clipped jolts of strained audio.

“Pass the damn ball!” The man screamed exasperatedly at the screen, throwing his arms up in utter annoyance as the players on the television failed to heed his command and let the ball switch back to the opposing team’s control.

“Fowler.” Hank stated the name flatly, standing just inside the bar with his hands clasped neatly behind his back as the android waited patiently for the man to acknowledge his presence.

“Shoot, goddammit! Shoot!” Jeffrey Fowler all but bellowed at the innocent television, glaring daggers into the screen as his fists slammed heavily into the blameless countertop and shook the nearby glasses resting atop it with the force of the uncalled for blow, the glassware vibrating in response until one such beer mug blinked out of existence in a glitch caused by the rough disturbance.

“Fowler!” Hank tried again, his voice a tad bit gruffer than before and raised some in volume as well as the AI he was supposed to report to remained blissfully oblivious to the android’s presence

“She’s just standing there!” Jeffrey balked incredulously, reeling back in his seat with a look that could only be described as absolute, horrified disgust painted across his face. “Why the hell is she just standing there?” The man barked furiously, whipping about in his seat to demand an answer and gesturing violently at the girl who was apparently just standing there as his dark eyes fell on Hank and fixed the android with a questioning glare.

“I don’t know, Jeffrey.” Hank replied calmly, keeping his voice carefully controlled even as the man in question released an absolutely furious sound that apparently couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be a groan or a scream.

“Doesn’t matter.” Fowler eventually grumbled reluctantly, though the concession came directly after a muttered stream of unintelligible curses that implied otherwise. “We’re winning by a long shot anyway.” The man assured himself, turning back around on the stool to fix his gaze intently on the screen once more, his entire body tensed forward with the excitement of the game.

“Maybe she’s wondering why you brought me here.” Hank suggested evenly after a long beat of silence passed with no indication that Fowler had any intent of speaking to the android any time soon or even so much as drawing his eyes away from the Gears game again for that matter. Cyberlife and their carefully programmed AIs specifically designed to help the busy company handle their androids and guide the machines down the proper path had the capability to call any of their products into a digital arena of sorts anytime they so chose, often offering advice or helpful tips where they were warranted but also serving as a way for specifically designed models such as Hank to report important findings or general progress whenever Cyberlife desired it.

However, while this fictional facility was entirely necessary and a wonderful tool that, when used right, ensured maintained functionality and optimal effectiveness of all androids everywhere, it was often startling for nearby humans to see their android suddenly turn off without warning… And Hank could only imagine how Connor was reacting to the machine suddenly going brain dead in his passenger seat.

“I brought you here to report, HK800.” Jeffrey stated simply, never taking his eyes off the screen as his dark orbs trailed every buzzy movement of the onscreen players. “What have you to tell me?” The man prompted demandingly, ebbing notes of leftover irritation still clinging to his deep tones and adding a harsh edge to his words.

“I have been officially assigned the case and have met with Detective Anderson.” Hank relayed professionally, the machine's voice flat and void of emotion as he stared straight ahead and relayed the requested facts with perfect clarity and confidence.

“Connor Anderson.” Fowler mumbled softly, rolling the name over his lips slowly as if trying to decide if he liked the taste of it or not, though the sharp, glowering grimace that twisted the man’s features a moment later indicated he decidedly did not. “Strange kid.” Jeffrey stated blankly then turned in his seat slightly to cast Hank a bored glance over his shoulders, the man’s features carefully controlled to reveal nothing.

“Whaddya think of him?” The AI questioned casually, resting one elbow against the bar counter to tap a single finger lightly against the deep wood every few minutes, the paced, slow action a stark contrast to the constant anxious fiddling Hank had been forced to endure all day.

“He is…” The HK800 model android began but trailed off, searching his programmed vocabulary for any choice words to describe the detective and pulling a fatass blank, no one combination of words quite doing the befuddling man justice. Truth be told, Hank was uncertain he knew enough about Connor to form any solid conclusions about the guy past the basic facts he’d picked up from Google searches and case reports.

“Interesting.” The android finally settled on carefully, nodding slowly along to the word once it had passed his lips. It made more sense than anything else the robot could come up with, even if it failed to even breach the surface of the absolute clusterfuck that was Connor Anderson.

“Elaborate.” Fowler insisted with a bored roll of his eyes and a vague wave of his hand, the AI’s digits tangling pointlessly through thin air as the limb made small encouraging circles through the empty space.

Goddammit Jeffrey.

“Detective Anderson is an intriguing case.” Hank restated tentatively, LED flickering yellow in a series of rapid blinks before cycling down to pulse a slow, steady rhythm out only to flare back up to sporadic flickering once more a moment later. “He is too emotionally involved in his work, which could easily cloud his judgment and pose a threat to the success of the mission if it is allowed to dictate how we undertake the case.” The android stated clinically, the critical analysis earning a thoughtful frown from Fowler who nodded along to the machine's words.

“He seems generally troubled, but is well known for his previous work in dismantling Eden Club,” Hank continued on professionally, running through what facts and history the worldwide databases had to offer on the man and pairing the information carefully with what he himself had discovered over the past few hours in the human’s company. “Which leads me to the conclusion that he is a good detective and could be a useful asset to our mission.” The android finally concluded, confident in all he had said but awaiting Jeffrey's reaction to see what his AI in command had to say about the assessment as his judgment would override the prototype’s on any account.

“Not dismantled.” Fowler commented flatly, expression unreadable as the AI beat the very tip of his finger down languidly against the wooden counter in that same steady rhythm without missing a beat. “Shut down.” The man corrected pointedly, leaning back against the counter some to better watch the android as if trying to assess the piece of machinery for some sort of reaction. 

“They were never able to put anything directly at Kamski’s feet.” Jeffrey reminded easily, the simple fact one already readily available in Hank’s database and well known to the android. Elijah Kamski, previous owner and operator of Eden Club was a slick man and had managed to keep his hands clean in all that had gone down in his club, profiting off other people's dirty work while always managing to stay clear of the crossfire himself.

“I heard he’s opening back up soon on a clean slate.” Fowler informed the android whose LED flashed yellow a flicker of a moment before the machine dismissed the irrelevant information with a simple curt nod of acknowledgement. “Detective Anderson may be useful yet but I doubt he’ll be much more than a holdback.” Jeffrey concluded with a dismissive shrug, jerking his shoulder up once with a distinct air of disinterest as Hank merely offered another stoic nod, gaze ever unchanging and locked steadily forwards no matter what was said.

“There’s been a homicide reported a few blocks from your current location.” Fowler informed shorty, glancing away at nothing in particular as the information supposedly carried through some unseen wires to the AI. “I’m sending you the coordinates. Go check it out. “ The man commanded flatly and the case details blinked into existence within Hank’s mechanical mind, a short burst of electronic contact shocking through the machine’s system before the feeling was gone, leaving only the transferred data in its wake.

“Understood.” The android asserted militaristically, expression schooled ever forward and voice unemotive in the most mechanical way possible, as he was designed to be

“Do not let Connor Anderson get in the way of your mission, HK800.” Fowler warned once more and the bar dissipated around them as quickly as it had come, at first leaving only Jeffrey and the android in its wake, and then only Hank in the empty blackness of unwritten code.