acatalepsy_rpg | video | dated at the very end of week one

Entry tags:

video | dated at the very end of week one

[The video opens on a patch of dirt, a leg stretched out along one edge of the screen. Next to the leg a number of very small muddy spots map out a connect-the-dots picture that more creative minds - or just anyone who's ever been a bored teenager - might recognize as a sort-of accurate depiction of one particular x-rated body part. A voice, cracking and hoarse like it has to drag itself over gravel to get its words out, starts speaking immediately.]

Hey, you know what makes me-

[His coughing is harsh and wet but it's only a few seconds before it stops. Hank mutters a curse under his breath, just audible, and hacks up a loogie, spitting it so it lands just so off the end of the art in the dirt next to him. The dirt there goes wet and dark, and with this artistic rendering of a drop of splooge, his masterpiece is complete. When he leans back the camera's in a different position; in the opposite corner from the dirt the screen shows the massive head of a Saint Bernard, taking up a good part of the screen and the majority of Hank's lap.]

You know what makes me feel better when I'm feeling like shit? Bitching about it. Let's bitch, guys. Tell me how shitty you've got it right now. It's not like anyone's got anything else to do here, right? I mean, not unless someone can get this big furry boulder to unglue itself from my lap. I'd have something to do if he'd just play. Look, watch this, it's pathetic.

Hey, Sumo. Fetch.

[Anyone with motion sickness might want to look away; the screen jerks around wildly as the arm with the camera on it moves to grab a rock and hold it in the air like Hank's going to throw it. Then the screen goes still again as Hank has to lean forward to cough, his dog's big, placid face now taking up the whole view. Sumo gives a single low whuff, lifts his head, and apparently settles himself right over the camera because the screen goes dark. There's the muffled sound of Hank cursing, trying to say Sumo's name between coughs, and then nothing as Hank manages to work his other hand under Sumo's jaw and shut the recording off.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Come on, Sumo, work with him here.

Connor refuses to deflate, refuses to give up. Also refuses to immediately fall on the last resort of having to go over and pick up Sumo off of Hank just yet, preferring instead to garner the dog's good will before forcibly moving the big lug around.]

Are you hungry? [-he says, ignoring Hank's obviously unimpressed look.] Want to find something to eat in the kitchen? Want food?

[(So much for not bribing him.) A lilt added to his voice, the way one does when talking to a dog.]

[Sumo lifts one paw and then the other, shifting around like he's getting ready to rise, but doesn't go much further than lifting his front half up a little. His stare is steady and constant; he's been promised food, and he is ready to receive it.]

Shit, Sumo, I think that was the f-word. You might have to chase Connor down, make sure it- [Hank's voice falters, and he clears his throat. It only helps so much and his voice comes out sounding a little worse, breathy and quieter.] -make sure it follows up on that. Search those pockets.

[His eyes do move over to Hank’s face this time, the sound of his voice not getting any better even through all the heckling. Connor assesses the moment, looking at Sumo, still crouched.

Then he stands, walking nearer, deciding that even if Sumo won’t willingly draw close, maybe it’s a goal for next time. Best to expedite the process for Hank’s sake, and it’s not as if he’s giving up — he’s still accomplishing the task set before him as he bends down-]

All right. Going to pick you up, then.

[-and gently has to...basically wrap his arms around his big furry body to (hopefully) heft him up so that Hank can scoot out. As long as the dog allows it.

His actuators still strain a little, though. He might be stronger than a human, but it’s only slightly stronger. He wasn’t a model made for manual labor.]

Edited 2018-09-09 21:32 (UTC)

[Hank makes the effort to scoot himself a couple feet sideways, taking a moment to clear his throat again and then take a slow breath. Sumo, for his part, doesn't fight Connor, because it takes even more to get Sumo to put up a fight than it does to convince him to move. He just looks up with a short, confused whine, trying to see Connor's face.]

Thanks. God, I always forget how hot he gets until he wants to cuddle.

[Hank plants his palms on the ground but doesn't get up, trying again to clear his throat. He'd have to cough to really get this shit out, he knows that, but that's got so fucking old already and he is this close to losing his voice for at least a little bit.]

Finally decided Sumo wasn't gonna come, huh?

Edited (remembered something else i wanted hank to say oops) 2018-09-09 22:06 (UTC)

[As soon as Hank is free, he gently puts Sumo back down on the ground— not that Connor had lifted him up very far to begin with.

He then straightens, vaguely satisfied, hands coming up briefly to adjust his tie. He look at Hank, nodding slightly.]

Well. Maybe I underestimated how much he’s concerned for you, versus his interest in anything else.

[Connor then offers Hank a hand up, without any sort of real warning.]

Though I have a suspicion that if you continue to sit there, he’s just going to do the same.

Yeah, you're probably right.

[He is right; Sumo's looking at him, and Hank knows that look. Sumo walking toward him cuts off Hank's 'frown at Connor's hand' time so he stops frowning and just takes it, his grip tightening despite him as the cough that's been threatening takes the excuse to try and come out. As soon as Hank's far up enough that he can let go without being weird about it, though, he does, leaning against the wall and kind of curling up against it as he just gives in and lets the damn cough come out. Some seconds later he takes a couple thick breaths, a few follow up coughs, and spits onto the ground, muttering to himself after. For a second he lets a whine into his voice, just for a second, because motherfuck.]

Ugh, shit...

[Then he takes a real breath, since he finally can. Time to enjoy that for the, like, minute that he has it.]

He's uh... He's just a creature of habit, that's all. Old guy, used to things, uh... things a certain way. We do this whenever I uh, have to call out of work cause of stuff like this. Tried to get him to play... wouldn't have it.

[Time to straighten up the rest of the way. He can do it. Okay, shit, here he is, upright and everything. Wonderful]

[Not surprising that Hank detaches himself as soon as he's able. And quick how Connor's face forms a frown at Hank's display of coughing, this time seeming even worse than before; nothing he can do right now, other than let the fit pass, which makes him register in his coding what he dislikes the most -- an awareness of being useless.

His LED erratically flashes a time or two, and when he's given a chance to reply, he sounds almost ingratiating -- as if he really would like Hank's cooperation on the following.]

Then I think what will make him feel better is when you start feeling better, too. It only makes sense, right?

[A beat, then:]

Follow me to the kitchen and I can prepare something to soothe your throat. I've been doing so for many people in the last few days.

[That ingratiating tone is not a good one. That tone makes Hank grimace at Connor, doubtful and openly suspicious. It feels like it takes him a long time to decide what he wants to do about that, the little offer there, because on the one hand here's an android trying (again!) to slide into his life and do shit for him. Maybe. If he's doing this shit for everyone it feels less like a personal violation but it's still a... A weird, uncomfortable thing, just on a wider scale.

On the other hand, his throat is screaming. He tries to swallow, grimaces, sighs, and manages to stop the cough that starts to come out.

Several seconds of weighing these two, equally heavy hands doesn't help him decide anything, so he doesn't move.]

What, they program you to be a nurse, too? You got a manual, '101 neat tricks to do with needles'?

No. Not particularly.

[He's definitely not as qualified as a caretaker android, nor one created to assist with various medical facilities. But-]

But a large part of my programming centers on adapting and learning. Especially when something becomes a necessity.

[Connor, on the other hand, is not willing to let heavy silence settle between them. He continues.]

Besides, Lieutenant, it's just something as simple as tea. That doesn't exactly require a detailed set of instructions to make.

Think this's gone a little way past what tea's gonna solve.

[Hank grimaces, still leaning on the wall, leaning away from Connor, very slightly. But he wants to be wrong, at least about this. The hope on his face while he watches Connor probably makes that clear. But tea's not going to help, definitely not enough to make it worth letting Connor act like it wants to help him, like it's not acting on some quirk of android programming that makes it want to make itself useful.]

I mean, unless it's magic tea.

[The hope on his face has leaked into his voice, here. He's really not writing that option off; please let it be magic tea. He'd pretend he never heard about any of this android shit just for one day if something Connor can do would just make him feel better.]

[He can't help the way the lift of his brow raises by small degrees, but he can try to edge the exasperation out of his tone. Schooling it to something more middle-of-the-road, easily achieved for an RK800.]

No. Unfortunately, it's just chamomile.

[Nothing magical about this tea, at least. There would be a lot less sick people wandering around if it was.]

It won't cure you, but it'll soothe your throat. Potentially ease the cough. Even if it's just a temporary reprieve, isn't it better than nothing?

[Hank laughs. The only thing that stops it sounding like another cough is that it's quieter and he locks his jaw shut afterward, swallowing the real coughs that followed it up back down his throat until they go away. Laughing is, yeah, probably not a good idea, but fuck, that was funny, in an unfunny kind of way.]

You know, I'm not sure.

[HIs voice sounded a little lost just there, and honest. But only for a second.]

Why do you care how well us little humans work, anyway? Is it a... I don't know, a mechanical thing? You see a broken part, you wanna fix it?

[The little double meaning behind that reply is something he's uncertain about. Prone to making his frown deepen, at least, listening to a hint of something sincere in those very few words. But just like that, they're gone, right when Connor considers subtly encouraging him further.

Instead, he's met with a question of why, and he finds that he needs to be careful with his response if he wants Hank's cooperation. Skirting the line between truth and convenient truth.]

Not at all. But... what good are we to each other, when a majority of our group is sick? And what am I to do with my time, other than to facilitate everyone's wellness? This is what I've chosen to do, because it's the most beneficial in the end.

Yeah.

[Hank closes his eyes, pressing the heel of a hand against his temple because it kind of helps the pressure in his head, just for a second, and stops himself before he sighs. What do you know, old dogs can learn, or some shit - at least, when their body punishes them every time they do it.]

Kinda is what I said though, isn't it? Just on a larger scale. Efficiency. That kind of makes sense.

Fuck it. Yeah. Let's go make me some tea.

[He takes a step away from the wall for the first time in probably hours, stands there cautiously and, hey, actually keeps standing there on his own power! It's the little things in life.]

That's the most effective way to do it, though? Like, really? Tea?

[There is pointedly no remark regarding efficiency. Connor doesn't want to risk a reply undoing his once-friend's compliance.]

It's quick. Simple. And even if its efficacy is temporary, it's soothing. Which is a benefit to itself, when rest is so important.

[RESTING. IN BED, HANK.

Connor makes a little motion with his hand, indicating for Hank (and Sumo, too, if he likes) to follow. He'll glance back a second or two later, though, to make sure Hank's not toppling over.]

But if you have another suggestion, I'm willing to listen.

Chloroform.

[Hank follows, reaching down to pet Sumo as he goes. It kind of helps, and kind of gives him a point of balance, not that he really needs one. Walking sucks because right now everything sucks, everything is slow and takes way too much work, but he can do it.]

You think helping the group might not be the 'most beneficial option'? Let all the humans drop, any bots left'll be the most effective game in town.

[He wonders, for a second, why he said that, why he's needling someone like this who's just trying to help him. But he's not doing it to needle Connor; he's doing it for himself. So that's fine.]

[He leads the way, slowly, making sure that Hank and Sumo are not too far behind him. Connor is familiar enough with Hank’s humor that he’s quick to discard the chloroform option, but it’s the second part of what he says that actually has him stopping briefly to look at the man.

That Hank would be under the impression that Connor’s mind worked that way was fallacy, and also disappointing. He knows that Hank doesn’t have the highest opinion of him, but even that seems harsh; wrapped up in a joke or otherwise.]

No. Of course not. That would be the worst course of action anyone could take.

Why? Cause someone at Cyberlife told you people are great? What does 'worst' even mean to you, Connor? You just act like letting us all kick the bucket would be bad because someone told you it was?

[This is kind of going beyond just needling Connor now but it's helping Hank. Hank is tired and shitty and grateful, god, he's actually grateful, and Connor's sure as hell not going to tell him why that's a bad fucking idea. That's not what Connor's built for.]

[He doesn't continue walking, almost caught off-guard completely by those set of questions. Knows that he should expect them, especially if Hank is sick and likely in a more irritable mood than normal, but it's still an unneeded hurdle when Connor's intent is plain, simple: he just wants to help him feel better.

There's an issue, too, of trying to decide how to answer. He can give two of them.]

It would be bad because there aren't many robots or androids in the Circle, as compared to the whole of the population now. That would be a terrible loss, almost impossible for the group to recover from. A handful of androids does not efficiency make, Hank.

[That's the first reply. Wrapped up in logic, and Connor, despite his attempts to provide detached answers so Hank will cooperate, finds himself... uncomfortable at leaving it at that.]

Barring that, there are many members here that I would find... unfortunate if they were to fall fatally ill.

[Hank takes the stop as an excuse to lean against another wall, taking a slow, careful breath and still working his fingers through Sumo's fur. He frowns at the first answer; his frown twists even deeper at the second. Connor can't even stick with the answer Hank was expecting. Nevermind that the answer Hank was expecting isn't the answer Hank likes, because that's kind of the whole point.]

You can't give me a straight answer and then turn around and try to imply you've got squishy human reasons for what you do. You're not trying to help me; you're trying to help the whole machine keep turning, and you need most of us in working order for that. So, what, are those 'many members' calculated to be more efficient than the rest, or something? You even thought about your own reasons, here, or have you just thought about what you want people to think you're thinking?

[Accusations kind of lose a little sting once they start sounding like a kid's tongue twister. But whatever. This is fake, is the point. Unless and until Connor can start giving him answers that prove it isn't.]

[As applied to the core of him, that's not wrong. There's no point in losing so many people, for the Circle would suffer from it, and therefore his own purpose (secondhand as it is, since the deviant case no longer applies) would stutter out and die. To leave him wheeling in the wind, with no clear objective, is a strange sort of empty freedom that no android knows what to do with.

(Most androids, at least.)

But there's another half of him, the kind that's harder to sort and harder even to think about, that knows concern is derived from something more than just crunched numbers and facts. He thinks of Kamski, and Chloe, and the feeling of a gun pressed into his hand, and how he couldn't pull the trigger just to garner information, to expedite their case-

Of course this makes his LED dip into the yellow, ever so briefly. He turns his head, facing forward, so that it's obscured from Hank.]

My reasons align with the purpose I've been given since I arrived; Astoria expects us to aid others, and that doesn't just extend to the planets we visit.

Is that not what you want to hear, Lieutenant? What is it you want me to say?

[He will gladly regurgitate it back.]

I don't want you to regurgitate some shit back to me, I want-

[Caught up in all this like he is, he forgets to be careful, takes a deep breath for a sigh - or tries to. The coughing's not quite as bad as it was earlier but it's no picnic, and he has to swallow down the gross mucusy shit it brings up because they're inside. Hank is gross and Connor's answer is disappointing in a way he doesn't want to think too hard about, and his throat hurts, and his head hurts, and he decides to just give up for now. He sounds defeated, resigned, and very tired.]

Yeah. Guess that's about what I expected. Just how far is the fucking kitchen?

[Hank pushes off the wall and starts walking in a direction that's probably toward it. Let's get this the fuck over with.]

[He waits out another coughing fit, and suddenly Connor cares not for conversation any longer, only for Hank to have some tea and sit and rest. His answer was likely not satisfactory, he can see it in the lines of his once-friend's brow, and but for now it'll have to do.

He opens his mouth to suggest that they continue to the kitchen, but Hank's already off. He follows, hurriedly.]

Lieutenant, slow down-!

[ugh hank!!!!!

Connor picks up the pace just enough so he can return to leading, then ushers Hank down a right turn, then into the kitchen entrance.]

It's this way. You can sit at the small table there.

[The urgency in Connor's voice earns him a baffled look but Hank doesn't push it, since getting there fast is kind of the point and now Connor's hurrying. Once they get in Hank sits where directed and sags with a relieved noise, kind of hugging Sumo close to him when the dog drops his big head on Hank's lap. Hank sets an elbow on the table, props his head up on his hand, and watches Connor, kind of vaguely interested in seeing how he moves around a kitchen.]

Must be having to do this a lot, huh? Kind of feels like we all just dropped at the same time.

[Connor can inform Hank of exactly the amount of cups of tea he's made in the past few days, down to the very ounce. But he sees no need to bog the man down with details, and instead gives a generalized answer.]

I've done this many, many times, yes.

[He moves to a cupboard to retrieve a clean mug. If it all looks very practiced, it's likely because it is.]

I believe I can add "tea making" to the list of qualifications this RK800 unit possesses.

[A subtle attempt of a joke, that.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject