Memory Post

[sociallychallenged]

Playground #Cole

A little boy with brown hair is on a merry-go-round with two other kids. Another little boy, red-headed, in bright blue plaid with yellow stripes. An Indian girl in a pink dress that's already muddy, like she's managed to get into everything imaginable. Hank's noting that no amount of stain remover's going to save that thing, and pities her mother. He holds onto the railings of it, smiling broadly. "Spin it faster, Daddy!" he yells, and Hank's voice responds with a doubtful, "You sure?"

"Yeah! Yeah!"

So Hank does, and the kids all engage in that happy simultaneous wailing that children do when they're having too much fun. Hank doesn't let it go on too long, though, and slows the joyful banshees down before one goes flying off or something. He's sure that it would inevitably happen.

Cole steps off, he wobbles around and does his best to walk in a straight line. He makes exaggerated falling-down-noises. "Whoa! Whoa! The whole world is going round and round!"

"Yeah, that's what happens," Hank responds, but he's laughing again when Cole topples onto his butt, and then lays flat on his back to look up at the sky. He points up. "Why do people get dizzy?"

"Because your brain shakes loose."

"Nooo!" Cole argues and rolls away in petulant disbelief. "My brain's not loose!"

"All the Colors" #Cole #Dog

Hank's watching a game on TV. There are people playing basketball, and he clearly sees a man walk with the ball. It's the team Hank's been rooting for. The ref blows the whistle, exchanges a hand signal. Hank says an unhappy, "Oh come on!"

During the break, though, he looks to the boy next to him. He's not watching the game, he's got a box of crayons. Half of them are out as he draws. Apparently the drawing is important enough that he needs to stick out his tongue while he's making it, just the little tip peaking in his concentration.

"What are you drawing?"

"Me and you and Sumo." He turns his paper. The stick figure dog looks like it's the size of a horse. Hank turns his head to look at Sumo. He is an enormous dog. Hank thinks he got the proportions of the St. Bernard just right. He looks back at Cole, noting that he's tried to do some stripes on Hank's shirt. He must have used the whole half a box for that. Cole's shirt is plain and blue.

"Is blue your favorite color?"

"No. Blue is my favorite shirt. Why do people have to have favorite colors? I like lots of colors." Cole leans back on the couch, little nose scrunching up at the question.

"You don't have to have favorite colors." Hank looks down at his own shirt. It's got stripes and patches of camo shapes. He looks up at Cole. "You can like patterns, that way you can have more colors you like."

Cole is looking at his shirt too when he looks back up.

"You must like all the colors, Daddy."

Siren #Cole #Dog

There's a toddler on the floor in front of Hank, playing with little plastic figures. From the gaze of Hank, he looks like the most fragile little thing in the world, planted on the floor in front of him. By the door there's a pile of boxes. They're labelled 'clothes' and 'electronics' and 'make-up' and other such things. Someone is planning to move out. There's sadness from Hank as he looks at them. Rejection, anger.

Then distraction as the little boy pats his hand with a toy in it. He walks a little rounded plastic police officer across his knee and makes a siren sound.

Hank is amused by this.

"Do you think Daddy just hangs his head out the window and just makes that noise?" Hank starts to chuckle midway through the thought. That makes Cole laugh at him, a wide-mouthed big open laugh.

Hank attempts his own siren sound to make Cole laugh harder. In the middle of it, a fluffy St. Bernard puppy to the side of him howls, wanting in on the game. It's large, with giant feet, and seems to have too much skin. Cole runs over to him to give him a hug, and Hank reaches out to mess up his hair lovingly.

Rocky #Dog #Crime Scene

It's dawn, that place where the light is dim and blue, misty. Hank's flashlight is cutting around a roped-off property. Several people are being escorted off in cuffs. There's an ambulance, and they're treating some other officers for their wounds.

He walks around the side of the building. There are dogs tied to ramshackle houses. Most are barking. A couple look aggressive. Most are just wagging their tails. Some are sulking in their shoddy houses.

There's a white pit bull. He's not barking. He's got one of those faces capable of smiling, and he's wagging his tail so hard his hips are swaying. Hank knows that it's not what he's supposed to do, but he goes over to him. He crouches and he pets his head. He takes note of small scabs, signs of a fight with another dog.

"Hi there, buddy.. Hi..." he says gently, petting over his blocky head. "What a good face you have."

The dog whines at him, tips his head into his hand because he wants lovings and scratchings. Hank looks around him at the other dogs, and inwardly feels pretty angry. "Don't worry, good boy. That motherfucker's gonna go to jail for a long time. Because he's fucking stupid, isn't he boy? Yeah, who's a good."

When Hank stands again, especially worried about that dog (and what will happen to all of these dogs), he looks at a window of the sprawling house he's next to, turning down the flashlight away from it. He's trying to see inside, but his reflection is there. A uniform, clean-cut, hair still curly though. He's shaved and square-jawed and fit. He looks much more healthy in general, not just younger. Like there's less weight on his shoulders.

Crime Scene #Crime Scene

Hank walks into a house. A middle-aged man is sobbing uncontrollably, an officer waiting to get his statement. The woman next to him is raging angrily, a mother that wants to rip the eyes from someone's head. Hank has sympathy as he walks up the steps and onto the scene.

As he goes up the stairs he takes note of the pictures. The usual family pride. Pictures of a happy family with beaming smiles. Two girls. One a teenager, one about ten. One of the ten-year-old at summer camp, on a horse. One of the sisters in hockey goalie armor, holding up a trophy. She has a black eye without the mask. She looks proud. Another of the family in front of a vacation cabin.

She reaches the room. It's not like your TV stereotype. There are cartoon posters on the walls, TV shows she likes. There are collector figures on a shelf. There's one of those basketball nets over her trash can, and her sports gear is in a messy pile on top of her laundry.

And there's blood. So much blood.

She's laying face down on the floor. It looks like she tried to crawl for help. She's about five feet from her laptop on the floor. Her phone is across the room, on a charger, too high to reach. She's been stabbed several times.

"So they already got him?"

"Yeah. It was her ex-boyfriend. She just broke up with him. She let him in. Parents were at the grocery store." The cop that steps in his line of vision is going gray, portly, wearing a mustache.

"Poor girl."

"Yeah, no kidding. Fucking stupid asshole kid." Hank mutters. "Someone needs to call an advocate and a psychologist for the parents. When they can think clearly, anyway. They're gonna need help after this." When he goes to look at the pictures lining the girl's mirror, he's briefly visible. Still blond, but edging towards gray. His hair is still short and wavy, but he has a goatee. He is glad he'll be able to go home to his son. He'll make sure to check on him before he goes to bed.

Connor #Connor

Hank's facing Connor. The Detroit skyline is behind him. He's feeling doubtful, a little upset at his worldview being challenged. And here Connor is saying those two girls at that club, the androids, they weren't actually in love. Hank's sitting in a strange position on a park bench, perched on the back of it. But he gets down.

"What about you, Connor? You look human, you sound human, but what are you really?" Hank asks aggressively, resentfully. Just waiting for that answer where Connor just fucking says he's a machine again. But he doesn't. The response is different.

"I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner... your buddy to drink with... or just a machine... designed to accomplish a task."

He really doesn't want him to be just a machine. Don't fucking be a machine.

"You could have shot those two girls, but you didn't." Hank shoves him. Connor staggers back. "Why didn't you shoot, Connor! Hm? Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?"

"No!"

Hank isn't expecting that answer. He wants that answer, though. He wants that answer as badly as he wanted to help people when he became a cop. He wants it as badly as he wants his dead son back.

"I just decided not to shoot, that's all!"

It's not enough. He's seen how these things work. They say what they think you want to hear. He's seen Connor do it in interrogations, ply the reactions he wants. It must be what Connor's doing now. So Hank pulls a gun. It's a revolver, a six shooter. It's not standard issue.

"But are you afraid to die, Connor?" He asks as he points it at him.

"I would certainly find it regrettable to be interrupted before I can finish this investigation." Does Connor look a little scared? He looks like he might be scared.

"What'll happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android Heaven?"

"Nothing... there would be nothing..."

He doesn't know what it is about Connor's face. Uncertainty? Or grim certainty? But it scares Hank. His hand shakes. What if there is nothing. What if Cole went nowhere. What if he'll never be with him again. What sort of fuck is he threatening Connor with that horrible expanse of nothing.