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

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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.]

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[And now they're really getting into some philosophical shit. Well, why wouldn't they? Connor himself, weird and offputting as he is - as it is - is kind of a walking philosophical debate. But the point it's making - Hank laughs, and the noise is breathy and quiet but he still has to choke back a couple coughs afterward, closing his eyes with a pained noise and looking back up at Connor once he's done.]

Who the hell do you think created those concepts in the first place, upgrades and throwing shit away once it's outdated? Humans are all about that shit. And, uh-

[Hank watches his hands tap his mug against the table, sucking at his teeth.]

- You're good at the cop stuff too. I've seen it. You might even be good at the human side of the equation, at least as far as investigations go. You were good in that interrogation.

[He doesn't sound grudging at all when he says it. He just sounds honest, and resigned, and tired.]

[He’s already forming a retort in his head, an argument against what’s apparently turning into a debate about the longevity of a human’s skills, but the compliment upends all of that. Severs his line of thinking as if it were put under a blade, and he blinks in what appears to be legitimate surprise.]

I… thank you, Lieutenant.

[Now he has to recover from that, the satisfaction that is experienced when told that he’s done well, a task completed with efficacy. Words return a little slower than usual.]

But… that isn’t my point. An android isn’t meant to be anything more than a machine to aid humans. But the legacy that mankind can leave behind will supersede a single individual’s lifetime; just look at works of art and literature that have lasted for centuries and are still studied in schools and universities as we know it.

[But that still isn’t technically his point.]

Backtracking a little, though, my own achievements don’t discredit yours. My statement still stands: you’re good at what you do [when the man decides to do it] and I don’t see why you wouldn’t fit in here.

[It's weird, how Hank admitting Connor does what he's created to do - be as good as a human cop, if not better - seems to trip Connor up. Hank wasn't expecting that. And he wasn't expecting that hearing it would just make Connor double down on his original point, that everyone's valuable, that Hank fits right in alongside the kinds of people who even back in their homes - apparently - foiled six different world-ending plots before breakfast. And Hank kind of doesn't know what to say to that.

Well. Not without getting real specific, anyway, and Hank doesn't really want to prove his point that bad.]

I guess it doesn't matter anyway. I mean, it's not like you can kick anyone out when everyone just got fuckin wished here by magic.

[He rubs the heel of a hand against an eye, then slides it back to press against his temple.]

This is all so fuckin weird, anyway. I can't even wrap my head around this shit, let alone... I don't know, do whatever it is we're supposed to be doing, if this flu shit ever passes.

[He’ll view it as a small victory. Anything where Hank might be conceding the point is better than pushback, though he understands that it may be because of the man’s… less-than-well state.]

A discussion to be shelved until another day, when you start feeling better.

[Fingers, laced together as they are, flex slightly.]

I wish we had better understood the sickness that plagued Struxta. We might not be in this predicament otherwise.

[Hank takes a second, drinks his tea. Maybe he shouldn't be trying to figure this whole flu thing out, and honestly, he's not interested in doing anything but sitting here being miserable until either it passes, or it doesn't. But, obsolete or not, Hank is a cop, and when a question like this is sitting right in front of him, he's going to ask it.]

That's the uh, last place you guys went, right? I heard about that, that there was a bunch of uh, weird robot shit. But no one mentioned anything about getting sick.

[He nods, happy to explain further.]

That’s right. Struxta was the name of the city we visited, consisting of great technological achievements. Where robots and androids thrived — but no organic life.

[His LED spins, lining up the information to be told in a concise way.]

It had all died out, a very long time ago, by an unnamed plague. The natives leaned on technology — even androids — to ease the growing difficulties of their lives as a result, but in the end, they couldn’t stop it. However, their advancements had reached a point where they were willing to upload their conscious minds to robotic bodies, so that they could continue “living” in this way.

Centuries passed, and I suppose they forgot about this part of themselves. Upgrades and more technological advancements burying their human-esque heritage. They still possessed personalities, of course, but the memory of what they once were was mostly gone. There were a few, though, who remembered. Who refused to upgrade their forms, and lived underground, away from the rest of the population.

[He pauses, to let Hank mull over this information.]

Shit.

[Hank says it slowly, leaning back, drawing the word out long enough that it'll hold all the low-key horror those concepts spark in him.]

That's fucked up.

[He chews over all that a second more, still looking disturbed, and then makes himself move on to the part of the whole thing that doesn't horrify him, sounding noticeably less shaken when he does so.]

So you think that sickness was still around, somehow, and some of your guys got it while they were there? Or uh... I guess the magic transporter shit might of messed with something, zapped some air samples back with you from when the plague was still around, or... some sci-fi shit, I don't know. Huh.

[He takes another second, gaze distant as he thinks about it, and his voice now is one which says the issue is settled. Kind of funny, in an ironic way, but probably settled.]

Welp, guess the issue of whether I belong here was kind of moot all along, huh?

[Quick to rise to the not-bait of the last statement, easily discarding all the rest, Connor has to push aside a flare of ( fear — apprehension — errors in his system ) displeasure at that, seen obviously in the sharp downturn of his brow.]

Don’t say that, Lieutenant. We don’t know if it’s one and the same, or if it’ll even act similarly in the Temple.

[Even worse how Hank seems to have lost a sense of alarm the more he spoke.]

Yeah, true.

[Hank shrugs, taking a longer sip of the tea and then looking at the mug, thoughtfully. Weird to think this tea was made to soothe some shit that might actually never get better.]

Could be a coincidence, something else completely. Could be their environment had something to do with how bad it got. Robot world, I mean.

God, I can't imagine that. Being willing to, to do that to yourself. But I guess you're not the guy to talk to about that, huh? About how fucked up all that shit you told me about uh, about Struxa was?

[His hands, gone tense, relax by a small degree.]

I don’t know. Maybe I’m someone good to have this discourse with, given what I am.

[Another pause.]

Back in Detroit, if I had found myself so injured to the point where I shut down, my memories could have been uploaded into another RK800 body. The parallels are hard to miss.

Are they? You think it's the same thing, a human... doing what they did and you, uploading yourself into something identical?

[He doesn't think it is at all, and maybe that's not hard to tell but his voice is even. There's no anger in his voice, just something curious and challenging.]

On paper? No, it isn’t the same. Similar, but not identical.

[But Struxta wasn’t so straightforward.]

However, it was either that or… let their culture die out completely. Humans fear death. Often times will go to great lengths to avoid it, as their survival instincts dictate.

Humans are idiots. We'll always fuck things up for ourselves if we can.

[That part of it's simple. This particular stupid coming out of survival instinct might be true, but that doesn't mean it's not fucked up.]

How about you? What part of you being able to just... cheat death with no consequences is like what they did? I still don't get the comparison.

[Hank’s unflattering view of humanity is based off of his own experiences, so Connor isn’t surprised to hear that assessment.]

The ability to move from one ailing body to a new one is an obvious one, I think. And the loss of memory integrity is also something that can happen to me, somewhere in the transition.

Yeah?

[Hank does, of course, think about it sometimes, the fact that androids are not only going to replace him someday, but outlive him, too. Outlive everyone like him. But he's never thought about it in quite this way, about being one, hopping into the best new tech when the old body fucks up and doing that over years, centuries, losing little pieces of yourself along the way.

Hank thinks about it now, thinks about Connor, watches him.]

So what did you see when you looked at those... those people, robots, whatever they were? You think the same thing's gonna happen to you someday?

[The look on his face becomes questioning.]

You mean if CyberLife will continue to upgrade me until I completely lose the set of memories that I'm carrying now?

Maybe, sure. What do you think about that? It happening to those people, that's, objectively it's horrifying, but you? Would you even care? Or would it even matter, so long as your parts were still functioning?

It wouldn't come to that point.

[His LED flickers a little erratically, then steadies again.]

I'm a prototype, Lieutenant. Once a newer model was released, there would be no reason to continually keep me upgraded.

[That's sort of sidestepping the question, and Hank is a police officer, so he doubts he can get away with it. But it buys him time to formulate a better reply.]

Yeah. I guess that's true.

[Humans, after all, aren't the only ones getting replaced by machines. Hank hasn't really thought about that before, but that's probably because it doesn't matter. It's not like they don't come out already expecting to get replaced by the next big thing. That's not even the point, anyway.]

But CyberLife's not here. What if you, say, stayed on robot world, just started doing what they do? Would it even make a difference to you?

You're asking if I would miss having a sense of... self, or if the idea sounds unsatisfactory to me, aren't you?

[He asks to clarify, to not miss the point Hank is trying to unravel. Or maybe so that he doesn't disappoint with his answer.]

Yeah.

[Hank doesn't try to hide the way he's looking at Connor, like he wants to see into him. Not that it'd make any sense if he could, all those... whatever's in there, all those tubes and circuits. But there's got to be something there, something more than that inside that too human head, with its too human voice and gestures and opinions. Or maybe there doesn't. It wouldn't fix anything about this whole 'Hank may or may not be about to die' situation, but resolving that little itch, the wrongness, that he always gets when he has to interact with Connor, that would settle something.]

Does it even matter to you? Or is your sense of self just a calculated reaction to stimuli, wouldn't matter if it got lost? Would you even notice?

[This is difficult. There’s an answer that comes to him faster than the others, but it’s disquieting, it makes him wander into that territory that he’s been trying very hard to avoid, flirting with the line drawn in the sand. He looks at Hank, sees the subtle intensity of that returned scrutiny. Doesn’t break his own eye contact, tries to keep the crease from his brow; can’t, not completely.

He’s always leaned towards honesty with the Lieutenant. This reminds him of that snowy night, a conversation about being afraid to die, a gun barrel pointed at his forehead. He had been truthful, then, too.]

There are experiences both here and back home that I would not wish to forget. Acquaintances and friends that have been helpful to me, and it would be unfortunate to have that completely erased.

I’m not… sure if that’s what defines a sense of “self”, however. But I can’t think of what else would, other than memories and associations and, yes, those same stimuli you claim are only calculated reactions of my programming.

[Hank doesn't drop the stare.]

So, is that a yes? Or a no? You gonna imply shit and count on me to fill in what I wanna hear, or are you planning on giving me a solid answer? Would you miss it, miss whatever it is you are, if something all a sudden changed it? If it didn't effect anything you needed to do, didn't downgrade your efficiency, or whatever. Would you care?

[Hank’s even more dogged than that night. Wanting a straight answer, not the way Connor likes to gingerly stride around it. One hand idly works at the other, subtle movement, feeling the parts that make up his fingers under false skin.]

In this specific hypothetical situation, then I suppose so.

[Is that good enough? Free him from the grilling, dear lord. Somehow Connor feels like his foot has been clenched in a bear trap and he needs to find a way to backpedal, because he’s suddenly not sure if anything he’s said is satisfactory or worth opening this can of worms again.]

[Hank's eyes move from Connor's face to his hands. Is that a tell? Or is it one of those deliberate quirks, an idle animation? He looks up at Connor's face for another moment and then he leans back, taking a slow sip of his tea. He's trying to decide whether to do what he'd do if this was an interview, whether to find another connected angle and push on it-

But they're not in an interview. Connor's not under suspicion of anything except being himself, whatever the fuck that happens to be.

Hank decides on the path of least resistance, and most deniability: Sitting there and quietly drinking the tea, watching Connor and waiting for him to go on.]

video | dated at the very end of week one

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