Research Assistant 9 || DBH Connor x Reader ||

Connor's sensors whirred quietly as he scrolled through the precinct's files late into the night. The steady hum of machinery blended with the soft clatter of keyboards and murmured voices in the background. Despite the precision of his programming, something nagged at him-a gap in his otherwise flawless database.

He paused at a dusty photograph pinned to Lieutenant Hank Anderson's cluttered desk that he hand't noticed before. In the faded image stood a young woman with dark eyes, and cascading curls-An image flashed across his memory:

Those same dark eyes staring at him, a clipboard in her arms, a determined furrow in her brow. "He doesn't seem to be responding," she said examining the writing on her clipboard. "Connor, can you understand me?"

"Lieutenant," Connor said, tilting his head as he activated a low-volume query, "That woman on your desk? Who is she? I've cross-referenced every database, and I cannot locate a single record matching her description."

Hank looked up from a stack of case files, his expression a mix of irritation and reluctant fondness. "You're askin' about y/n, huh?" he replied, his voice gruff yet carrying an edge of nostalgia. "Yeah, I remember her. She was my partner once---Detective L/N ---a real spitfire that one. But she wasn't cut out for the blue-collar grind of this precinct for long."

Connor's LED flickered with quiet intensity. "Cyberlife's records show no transfer or re-registration. How can that be?"

Hank snorted, leaning back in his creaky chair as if the answer were obvious. "Sometimes things don't get written down in the official logs, pal. Y/n made a choice. She up and left. Decided she'd had enough of chasing lowlifes on the streets and wanted a shot at somethin' bigger over at Cyberlife." His gaze hardened momentarily, as memories flared behind his tired eyes. "We kept in touch for a while, but then about a year ago, she just stopped callin'. Haven't heard from her since."

The ambient noise of the precinct seemed to fade as Connor absorbed Hank's words. Every detail was logged, every nuance analyzed. Despite his advanced programming, the unpredictability of human choices added a layer of complexity he wasn't used to.

"Why would she do that?" Connor pressed, his tone both analytical and earnest.

Hank's lips twitched into a wry smile, though his eyes remained guarded. "Look, kid, she wasn't your run-of-the-mill detective. She was smart---too smart for the system. Over at Cyberlife, they dangled a carrot she just couldn't resist: worked on a project to build android detectives or something. Aghh. Look, kid, it's obvious you want to know more about her, for reasons I really don't understand, but if you're really that determined the DPD's got to have a file on her. Why don't you start there? "

"I have checked all available digital files, Lieutenant. None contain any mention of her."

Hank's eyes narrowed, and he grumbled, "I meant the paper files, kid."

"Oh." Connor's LED flickered a moment in what could only be described as thoughtful recalibration. "Understood, Lieutenant."

***

Later that evening, after Hank's reluctant revelations, Connor's focus shifted to the precinct's archival room---a dim, dust-choked space where the forgotten relics of police work lay in silent testimony. Rows of creaking metal filing cabinets lined the walls, each drawer a vault of memories from cases long closed and lives long past. With methodical precision, Connor began searching for Detective L/n's paper file.

The metal drawer protested with a low groan as Connor pulled it open. Sunlight streamed in through a small, grimy window, illuminating a dust-covered folder marked with her name. He retrieved it carefully, his mechanical hands steady despite the delicate nature of the task.

Inside, the first document detailed her performance in the police academy. Typed on faded paper, the report read:

"Cadet L/N exhibited exceptional analytical skills and a keen sense of justice. Her performance consistently exceeded expectations. A natural leader with an unyielding commitment to the truth, she is destined for greatness within the department."

Connor's processors catalogued every word, cross-referencing the data with what Hank had told him. The file continued with records of her early work as a junior detective. A report on one of her earliest cases caught his attention:

The report was written in her distinct, confident hand:

"I arrived at the scene to find chaos---a suspect, cloaked in the darkness, weaving through the abandoned warehouses of the industrial district. My first priority was to secure the perimeter and establish a visual on the fleeing subject. I called for backup, but I knew that split-second decisions were paramount. Trusting my instincts, I took an unconventional route through the back corridors, which paid off when I cornered the suspect without a shot fired. This case reaffirmed my belief that sometimes, breaking protocol is the only way to restore order."

Another report, marked with the title "Case Report - 2/12/28," detailed a more nuanced investigation:

"Working closely with my partner Lieutenant Anderson, I faced a labyrinth of conflicting testimonies in a case involving missing funds. I began by re-interviewing witnesses, meticulously cross-referencing their statements against the physical evidence. I sensed discrepancies that others overlooked---a subtle shift in tone, a hesitation in recollection. By trusting my gut and questioning the obvious, I pieced together the puzzle, ultimately identifying the true culprit behind the embezzlement."

As Connor turned the yellowed pages, his internal logs registered a crucial piece of data. Tucked into the back of the file was an old envelope with a handwritten address. The ink had faded, but it was legible enough:

"1234 West Lexington Ave., Detroit, MI - Former Residence."

This address was the missing link---a starting point for a search that had become more than a query in his database. It was the tangible trail left behind by a woman whose legacy had been expunged from digital records, yet preserved in the meticulous accounts of her work.

Connor carefully digitized the envelope's contents, tagging it as the key lead in his investigation. With the file in his memory banks and the address now pinpointed, Connor exited the archival room. The cool night air of the precinct's back corridors mixed with the rustle of old paper as he set his course. She was more than just a missing file; she was the key to a memory he didn't know he had until that very day. And now, with her old mailing address as his guide, Connor was one step closer to uncovering the truth about her true role in his past.