Dallon instructed the taxi to drop them off out front of a quaint food truck with a large cartoon chicken painted crudely on the side. "Chicken Feed" was written on the sign nailed to the top in bright bold letters that squished together near the end of the board. One man in a stained apron stood at the window, eyes glued to the tablet in his hands.

"Why are we here, Lieutenant? Did you not receive the message from Daniel regarding the deviants in—"

Dallon spun around on the heels of his scuffed boots and glared at Brendon. "I said I'm hungry. You might not need to eat or whatever, but if I don't eat in 5 minutes, I'm going to sit down, shrivel up into a ball, and fucking die. So I'm sitting down, eating garbage that should clog my heart so full of shit I'll have a heart attack, and then we'll go."

Brendon decided it was best to not argue. If he was planning on arriving to the scene by some point without being forced to do so, it would wait a reasonable amount of time for him to compose himself. Besides, studies showed people were less compliant and more irate while operating on empty stomachs.

It watched Dallon order the single hamburger meal on the menu that came along with a can of soda and a small package of chips. It identified the chef and cashier as Lonnie McDougall, a man with scattered and disconnected information. He was most likely running from the law.

Lieutenant Weekes began to unwrap his food before he'd finished paying for it. He simply slapped a wad of dollar bills and coins on the truck counter and dug in immediately. The burger alone had nearly half the amount of calories that specialists recommended be consumed on a daily basis. Brendon didn't want to analyze the sugar content on the soda or the ingredients in the chips.

It followed Dallon to a tall table without chairs, a tattered umbrella hanging lopsided due to a chunk missing from its base. The surface was stained with grease and sticky drink spills that hadn't been cleaned, along with initials and hearts carved jaggedly with sharp objects.

"Lieutenant, I do not believe consuming the remainder of your meal would be good for you. It would be better to find a restaurant that provides a variety of healthier dishes instead, as to avoid any future medical problems or critical damage to your body and its routine functions."

"I didn't ask for your damn opinion," he took another bite and continued to speak through it, "and I don't get these things often. Only when I have to deal with androids like you. It raises the risks of going into cardiac arrest, which is something I'd like very much right now."

Brendon frowned. Its LED switched from blue to yellow, trying its best to comprehend why he wouldn't mind dying at that moment in particular. It thought they were having a pleasant conversation, at least, compared to their previous interactions. "Your dog, Shane, is a Saint Bernard. Why did you decide on that breed of dog? They're very large, expensive, and can be fairly difficult to maintain."

"I didn't get him. Taylor found and named Shane on the side of the road 5 years ago when it was storming outside. Her landlord doesn't allow dogs on the property, so she gave him to me. I never planned on keeping him y'know, but he was just so cute and she had immediately fallen in love with him, I just never had the heart to get rid of the lil' dude. Then he became a big dude, and I loved him even more. Shane is like my child."

Again, Brendon decided it liked dogs more than it had before, specifically Shane if Lieutenant Weekes loved him so much. He drooled and shed loads of fur, but he was forgiven immediately for any concerning past and future behavior Brendon would encounter. "How did you meet Detective Taylor? You said you had worked with her for 6 years. Did you meet while working on a case together?"

Dallon took another bite. "No. We met at a concert 7 years ago and then we dated for a bit. It didn't work out because we found out we would be working together in the same department about a year in the relationship. We're still on good terms, just not together."

Brendon was pleased to learn more about its partner. He came off as reserved and constantly upset at first, but there was obviously a depth to him. "Were you both compatible? Working together shouldn't have been an issue; in fact, it should have made your job easier."

"Well, look. On the off chance we ever did split, we didn't want to ruin the other's career by needing to work separately. It was a platonic breakup. We're just friends."

"Do you still feel any type of romantic feelings towards her?"

Dallon shrugged but then nodded vigorously and opened his mouth to tell, but he paused and shut it as he came to realize what he'd been so excited about. "This burger must be laced. I fucking hate you, why am I answering your weirdly invasive personal questions?"

Brendon ran a quick analysis of his food, including the unopened drink and snack. There were no traces of drugs or anything similar. "On the contrary, Lieutenant, I believe we were just making conversation and bonding as partners should. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable; I was only trying to get to know you better. I am programmed to respond to the information I gather to integrate into the human population seamlessly."

He glared at it for a moment, gaze passing from food to the android a few times before he buckled. "I'll let you ask me 3 more questions, and then no more. Got it? Only because bonding is a semi-important part of the job."

Brendon had to choose his next words carefully. "Why do you hate androids? I don't see any physical evidence of injury from any, unlike Detective Taylor."

"I just do, okay? Personal reasons." He grumbled, stress levels rising significantly. "Pick your next one wisely, or I'll punch your teeth out."

That action was impossible, but Brendon chose to refrain from arguing about the likelihood of punching it doing more damage to the Lieutenant's fist than it would to Brendon's body. "Why did you decide to enter the police force?"

"I wanted to see dead bodies, have the kickass badge wallet hybrid, and be the coolest loser at my high school reunion. Next."

"My final question is a comment. I believe you should become romantically involved with Detective Taylor again."

Dallon nearly spit out his food. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, taking a minute to compose himself before answering. "No. Fuck you."

"You both work well together in the field; it only makes logical sense to—"

"I'm going to find you a shirt that says, 'I make people sad with my choices', and you're going to wear it over your prissy little CyberLife jacket. Because it's true. You, talking to me about my love life while I try to enjoy the last few bites of my single meal today, makes me extremely sad."

"Did you not eat breakfast?"

"I wake up late. I don't have time to eat in the morning, so I just don't."

"You should take better care of yourself, Lieutenant,"  Dallon only rolled his eyes and ripped open the bag of chips, "I don't believe Taylor would like to date a dead man."

"I'm not dating her again!"