[wasnt gonna update for a bit but I'm so happy guess who's on the varsity tennis team]

Brendon was instructed to locate and transport Lieutenant Weekes to the station for another interrogation on a suspected deviant after Captain Rodgers had discovered he'd been AWOL since Brendon had returned. Nobody was blissfully unaware of his hatred towards androids, yet they still sent one.

His home was disastrous. At first glance, the car parked in the driveway and the bushes on the verge of unruliness implied a rational and sane person lived on the property. But the front door was locked, and the only light on was in the back of the house. It was common courtesy for a human to answer the door, even if they were opening it to face someone they didn't like, so after 5 minutes of continuously ringing the doorbell, Brendon needed to find another entry point. Perhaps the Lieutenant was sleeping, or really despised it to the point he wouldn't even tell it to get lost again.

The further Brendon got on the property, the more Dallon's disorganized and hectic lifestyle began to show through the state of his belongings. A garden hose was attached to a faucet just a few feet from the gate leading to the backyard, which was unlocked and hung wide open, letting the hose in all the way to the back. It dangled over a plastic transportable pot of dead plants, which Brendon had to scan twice to be sure they had been thriving jalapeños and cilantro at some point instead of failed drug crops.

It leaned over the pots to squint through the window, seeing as the back door was locked from the inside, and it would have been easier to break through glass rather than the door.

Windows cost a fair amount of money to repair, but Brendon had to make a split decision as soon as it scanned the room the best it could and saw the Lieutenant on the floor, unconscious.

Naturally, it broke through the window elbow first and scrambled through the shards of glass stuck to the frame, and fell flat on its back on the matted kitchen carpet.

It scanned the room again. There were 2 empty bottles of alcohol tipped over on the table, 3 delivery pizza boxes, and various reusable drink cups from the closest fast food restaurants. His cellphone showed 16 missed calls from Detective Taylor, still buzzing uncontrollably beside an old slice of multigrain bread from the end of the bag, smothered in an inch of chunky peanut butter.

Brendon assumed Dallon lived alone, and usually when people lived alone, they let themselves go and spiraled into an endless pit of suffering and loneliness. However, the Saint Bernard dog hairs on his chair at the station were not from a friend's house, because it was staring right at the intruder from the dark hallway.

"Nice dog," Brendon whispered and held out his hand as it inched closer, "I'm your friend, see? I'm here to save your owner."

Dallon's dog sniffed its hand and gave a single lick of acceptance before bounding off and out of the room. Brendon wasn't complaining about the simplicity of the interaction, but it had been specifically programmed to deal with difficult dogs. Also, he'd run away before Brendon could pet him. It researched Saint Bernards on the internet and quickly became a fan of them.

It crouched beside the Lieutenant and inspected his surroundings — there were slight traces of alcohol on his shirt and the carpet, which had begun to dry and implied he hadn't moved for a while. The .357 magnum gun had fallen just out of his grip with 3 bullets remaining. The information it gathered suggested an ethylic coma. The chances were low, and it was more likely he'd just passed out, but it was still a possibility.

It prodded his shoulder twice. "Lieutenant? Is everything alright?"

When he didn't wake up or even flinch, Brendon decided to resort to more drastic measures rather than wait for him to stir. It raised its right hand and hollered, "Lieutenant,", and delivered a quick slap to his cheek, "wake up! It's me, Brendon."

"Oh my god, it is you. Can't you ever leave me the fuck alone? I thought I was dreaming when I heard you speaking to my dog."

He shoved it out of the way as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, cursing under his breath like usual, but he didn't say a word as Brendon pulled him to his feet and led him out of the kitchen and towards the bathroom. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I was instructed to escort you back to the station over an hour ago. Detective Taylor is already there and waiting patiently for our return."

"You're an android, just go off and do your own thing, tin can. That's why you exist."

Brendon ignored the instructions. "I believe it would be best for you to sober up before we depart. It's not safe to work while intoxicated; doing so increases the risk of injury by 73%."

The bathroom was the first room down the hallway. It was cramped, and the few products around the sink hadn't been opened in a while, spare the toothpaste clinging on to its last whim. The shower curtain was stained with soda and torn to shreds at the base, most likely by his dog.

"I'm not that drunk," Dallon lied and paused in the doorway, "all the shit on the table is from, like, a week ago. Except for the pizza, I picked that up on the way home. You want some?"

Brendon determined he had had enough to drink, based solely upon the lack of aggression towards the android that had just broken into his house to take him to a crime scene while officially off duty. It didn't contradict him. "I am an android. I do not need to eat. It's best if you store it in a refrigerated space and heat it up for 30 seconds in a microwave before eating."

"I ate most of it anyways. I'll give the rest to Shane, he likes pepperoni pizza."

"Who's Shane?"

"Dog."

Brendon turned to see Dallon's Saint Bernard, apparently called Shane, sitting in the hallway with the Lieutenant's shoes at his large paws. Drool dripped from his mouth, and whenever Dallon would turn back to check on him, he'd smile and the slobber would wobble as his whole body shook from excitement. Brendon decided it liked dogs more than it had anticipated.

"It appears you may suffer from severe depression," it'd searched multiple websites in a matter of seconds and concluded that easily, "but I still recommend seeing a professional about whether or not—"

"God nerfed me because he knew I would've kicked his ass by the age of 6."

It didn't know what that meant, and Dallon probably didn't either. Neither of them wanted an explanation.

"Detective Taylor called multiple times," Brendon said, and Dallon paused from washing his face to listen, "would you like me to call her back while you change, or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

He turned the knobs on the sink back to full force and waved away, hollering over the noise for it to do whatever it calculated to be a "good option".

Brendon nodded and left the lieutenant alone to fix himself up, wandering back to the kitchen and picking up his phone. Through the missed call notifications, it noticed the wallpaper was a collage of Shane sleeping in odd positions. It was interesting to find such an angry and upset person be so attached to an animal that couldn't even speak or perform simple actions due to lack of opposable thumbs.

On the first ring, Taylor picked up. "You asshole! I swear to god," she screamed at the top of her lungs, and Brendon wished it had insisted Dallon call her on the drive out, "I thought you were dead! I'm literally down the street because I thought you tried to off yourself again, so now I have to kick your ass — wait, who the hell is this? Shane, if this is you, speak!"

"This is Brendon, Detective. Would you prefer to communicate with Shane instead? He's currently keeping an eye on the Lieutenant while he makes himself presentable."

She fell quiet. "Damn. I'm sorry. I knew it was someone else when I didn't immediately hear angry cursing on the other end, and I just assumed Shane had sat on the call back button again. Is Dallon alright? I can drive you guys to the crime scene if he's buzzed."

"He is not 'buzzed', as you phrased it, but transportation would be nice, thank you. He shouldn't be driving in this state of mind."

"...So he is buzzed. Buzzed means intoxicated. It's human lingo."

"Slightly buzzed."

"Then say that next time, honey."

"He is slightly buzzed."

Taylor sighed and hung up the phone. Brendon heard her car pull up out front and went to greet her. Shane skidded on the tile to join it, waiting patiently for the door to open. Brendon was surprised Taylor was driving, seeing as she was recently recovering from an injury, but the streets had fallen empty by that time, and it was only her shoulder. The way she hissed in pain and cursed while climbing out of the driver's seat indicated she wasn't taking all of her pain medications.

"Suspect is at the station," she knelt down to pet Shane while she spoke, "I'll fill you both in on the way there, or you can check out the official report. I think Daniel sent it to you, Brendon. Now, where's grumpy bear?"