For all his bluff and bluster, Hank wasn't too upset to have Connor take the lead. It didn't mean he was obsolete or that Connor was better at all things due to his programming. The concept of Good Cop vs. Bad Cop was even older than Hank. When one approach didn't work, you switched gears and tried something else. It was only unfortunate that Connor didn't get anything more useful from Isabelle. Hank awarded him secret points for trying, regardless.
The device to have materialized in his coat pocket was familiar in a way. Its aesthetic reminded Hank of toys from his childhood -- the good ol' 80s. Best decade. Hands down. Anyone who disagreed was a moron. Surprisingly, it possessed functionality that was much closer to modern day smartphones. Hank was guilty of claiming they were 'too smart for him,' in the way most people over 50 were prone to do. When the first couple of button presses didn't earn the results he wanted, Hank resorted to banging it against his open palm. There was no problem he couldn't solve by hitting it.
"Goddammit! All I wanted to do was send an e-mail to Fowler! Is that so fucking hard?" he yelled into the tiny green screen. Giving up with a grunt, he settled for raking a hand through shaggy hair. "What are we supposed to do now, dress in costume and sing Kumbaya? That's sarcasm, by the way. Don't you dare start singing," he warned Connor. Spotting a quaint fountain in the middle of the cobblestone path ahead, he whistled for Sumo to join them. It wasn't the sort of thing most people wanted contaminated by dog saliva, but it was the best he could do for now. Those who objected were welcome to kiss the fattest part of his ass.
As Sumo drank, he admitted, "I'm running on steam here. So we either A) find a stand with the strongest, blackest coffee there is. Or B) Sumo and I need a place to bed down until we can make sense of all this. I don't suppose we can retrace our steps and pretend we didn't see shit? It ain't like anyone back at the precinct would believe us, anyway."