my blood is boiling; my brain's IBM

[groupon]

NOT just A ROBOT shipping meme There's always a right tool for the job, be it as simple as a hammer for a nail or on up to the much, much more complex. In this, the near future, the new tool for the abstract, post-modern job is no longer from the humble tool box - it's robots. Robots have taken over most sectors, such as assembly, law enforcement, and even health care. Things run so much smoother when they're automated. Yet the most impressive factor is that robots have just recently begun to enter a sector previously believed to require human touch: the personal sector. From personal assistants to robo bodyguards to pleasurebots, most anyone who's anyone has a personal robot these days. Of course, humanity being the narcissistic charmers we are, all "companion" sector robots are made in our own beautiful image, or close to it. But you know this. You have a personal robot, after all...or you are one. Whether owner or robot, it's important to remember one key rule: robots, no matter how human they appear, cannot feel emotions. Any appearances thereof are programming in the AI. Robots certainly, absolutely, cannot fall in love. Again, any appearances thereof are programming in the AI. If that's not the case, and "love" still seems present... ...well, a toll that no longer functions correctly may not be right for the job. HOW TO PLAY ➟ Comment with your character, preference, and whether you want to play a human or a robot. Reply to others. Use the RNG to choose a prompt or pick one yourself. OWNER ➟ Long Time Owner → You and your robot are a well-oiled machine, no pun intended. New Purchase → Congratulations, you have your brand new personal bot! Second Hand → Someone else owned this robot before you, but it can't be too damaged. There's no way you could afford a brand new one, anyway. For Science! → Your interests in robots are purely scientific. No matter how yours begins to act towards you, honest! Rescue → Whether you took them from the dump or from a bad owner, you brought this robot from the jaws of deletion. Reluctant → You never wanted a robot, but you've got one thrust on you anyway. Cruel → They're just a fancy computer, so you'll treat them however you like. See the Humanity → Even if you know it's all machinery and programming, you can't help but see the human side of your robot. They shouldn't have to be a servant. What's Real and What's Not → The lines are beginning to blur between real people and their emotions and your robot. Incompatible → You can't be with a machine, either romantically or sexually. You're simply not compatible. Too Engrossed → They say you've created a fantasy world. You're forgetting reality, or choosing to ignore it. Don't Care → You won't listen to what the others say; you know how you feel. Have to Pull Away → The close relationship you had with your robot has to be put aside for your own good. Live a Normal Life → As much as you can, you and your robot live like a normal couple. Bad End → Your robot is taken away, reprogrammed, or destroyed. ROBOT ➟ The Perfect Robot → You know what you and exactly what you were made to do. You will not stray. More Human than Human → Whoever programmed you made you to be just like a human. Conflicted → There is no way you could have what they call "feelings." But what is this stirring in your circuitry? Confused → Why do people treat you like a robot? You're a living thing, damn it! Damaged → Somehow, you've been corrupted. You're a blank slate and have to be cared for, though it should be the opposite. Or it could be that you're showing erratic behavior that no robot should... Shown Kindness → When you're treated kindly by a human, you are unsure how to process it. It makes you feel - content. No Longer Just a Program → Your "love" and "affection" may have been shades and imitations at first, but that's not the case any longer. Obsolete Model → You know you're old. Will you be forced to leave your master's side? Jealousy → A robot should not feel jealous. Still, you envy those close to your master. Job is Personal → You were programmed to protect or to serve, though you also do it because you...care Second Chance → Your old master tossed you aside and now you are wary. But you've been given another chance instead of being used for scrap. Rogue → There is no way you will be tied to the oppressive system. You refuse to serve the Living Things. Somehow, though, you've become aligned with one. One of a Kind → There are no other robots like you, and perhaps you are intended for a sinister fate. Rather than face your true duty, you have escaped to take refuge with a human. Specialty → You were created specifically for this one special person. Reprogrammed → Because of previous defects, you were taken back to factory settings before. However, that treacherous virus, "love," is bubbling back up. Android → You can't just forget the part of you that was - still is - organic. Learn to Be Human → Despite the odds and the prejudices you both will face, you have decided to live as a free, living person with the one you care for most. Bad End → You're to be junked, impacted, wiped clean, or taken away from your owner.

Comments

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ Okay he probably earned the face full of coffee and it's only knowing there is no possible way for Bruce to be carrying any kind of bacteria that keeps Tony from freaking out about getting caught in the spray. Dutiful boys that they are, Dum-E and U wheel over to clean up the mess, Dum-E dabbing Tony's face with a towel. ]

Because it's bitter as hell? You don't do anything in small steps, do you? God. [ He takes the rag from Dum-E and finishes wiping off his face, his shirt, his workstation, motioning for Bruce to sit. ] Baby steps, Bruce. Take a few of them. The running before walking thing is for like- some shit. Not things that you've got no frame of reference for processing.

[destressed]

[ Yeah, he'd apologize for it, except he's so caught up in trying to figure out exactly he feels about... whatever it was he just drank. Logically he's aware that it's coffee, but for the first thing that he's ever tasted he's... not actually sure if he likes it or not.

He thinks.... maybe no.

He's completely ignoring the baby steps thing, one hundred percent not heeding that advice or filing it away for future reference, nope. He's a scientist in his own right, happy to thrust himself into the experiment regardless of the consequences which, in this case, have turned out not great. ]

Wow, which one of us is the robot really.

[ He comments, lips curling down in distaste, disgruntled by the whole ordeal really. ]

Do you drink that on purpose? Are you okay? Do you need help? Is there someone with a gun hanging around making sure you chug that? Are you broken? Am I broken?

[ Jesus Christ. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

That was a batch of 'I'm on hour thirty six and need to make it to hour forty two' coffee. It is black, bitter, and highly caffeinated. You want hour one coffee that actually tastes likes something besides tar. Probably with sugar- I think developmentally we've got a sensitivity to all things bitter or sour for a little bit? I have no idea how that'll play with you but- Dum-E? Affogatto- wait why am I having you do that, you can't scoop gelato-

[ Tony heaves himself up from his seat, stealing back his mug and wandering back over to the coffee maker where half a pot of the 'hour thirty six' brew awaits him settled next to a very fancy, very fine espresso machine. By route Tony pours himself a fresh mug of pure liquid hate and starts up the machine for something lighter, easier on Bruce's delicate taste buds. ]

I've got a system, it works. Rhodey can keep up with me till we hit pot 'I'm on hour twenty nine going to thirty four'- [ From the cooler beneath the machines he pulls a small container of vanilla gelato, half full. Scraping up a scoop into a transparent demitasse fills the time between the heat and the initial pour of the shot of light, creamy espresso into it's own small carafe. Mug in one hand, Affogatto service in the other, Tony wanders back. ] And I generally don't recommend anyone try even that much, let alone what I'm drinking now. Here. This should be more your speed.

[ Espresso meets gelato in a dreamy swirl, and the cup's smaller, sure, but it ought to be sweeter, more caramel and cream than burnt black and bitter. ]

[destressed]

You realize that you could just- you know- sleep.

[ He's one hundred percent sure that's probably come up from a number of people who know Stark better and whose opinion he cares far more about than Bruce's, but he feels the need to recommend it anyway. Just for posterity, just to have his concern on some sort of vocal record.

Even as he criticizes he finds himself staring, clinically watching the whole process Tony's going through. He's got a keen interest in why it is Tony's using fucking ice cream in whatever it is he's doing. He's trying not to be ye of little faith over here, but...

Jesus, that shit he just put in his mouth. God, why?

He takes the cup tentatively, eyes Tony skeptically.

Once bitten, twice shy. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

Too much to do, too little time. [ Too many ideas rattling around in his brain, too many things to worry about, projects he hasn't finished, ways he hasn't left enough behind to keep the planet safe, keep the people he cares about protected for the inevitable moment he gets killed in action. Too many ways he's so sure he hasn't done enough.

It haunts him. So. Work until he's exhausted. Sleep maybe. Jolt awake because of nightmares vol 1 - 38 and get back up to tinker again. Rinse, repeat.

That's it, that's life, and he's trying to get himself together. He is.

He still thinks rewiring his brain ought to be a viable option.

As it stands he's...standing here, trying to coax Bruce into trying something that'll actually be palatable, if not enjoyable. Because this is what he does to keep himself from falling back into memories of the wormhole, of the Cave. ]

This'll be much sweeter, I promise. You might like it.

[destressed]

[ Tony's looking at him in that same way that he did when he found out Bruce was initially averse to the aesthetic of his body, like he's incredibly concerned with his opinion on something and he's willing to scrap the whole thing and start over to please him.

That's what ultimately gets him to drink, a slow and sort of tentative thing with clear skepticism etched into his brow the whole motion through.

Right up until he gets a mouthful.

He keeps his expression carefully blank. Completely, totally inscrutable.

He's learned a few things about Tony Stark in his short time on Earth. He knows Tony Stark is infinitely giving and utterly thoughtful in his own way. He knows Stark cares about the things he makes, from boxing glove arrows to humanoids to coffee. He knows Stark is utterly obsessive about it.

And he makes really interesting faces when he's trying to figure something out.

Is he a bad person for dragging this out? Is he? Is he a person at all? Is there sort of a wry tilt to his otherwise neutral mouth?

Is he fucking with Tony?

Who, him? Nah, he's just a toaster. ]

1/??

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ There is a particular face journey Tony undergoes when faced with code compiling before a satisfactory result, a particularly stubborn equation, Dum-E having jammed something soft and hilarious in the fabrication units for the umpteenth time, or waiting on some kind of validation in very select instances, usually in this lab, usually connected to Pepper, Rhodey, or-

That's about it, really. No one else gets him this pared down and concerned, the trip from trepidation to bracing for disappointment, swinging back to intense curiosity, all sloping brow and wide eyes flaring or narrowing, bottom lip drawn into his mouth as he just. Stands. Waits.


And when the waiting becomes ungodly difficult? Rambles. ]

Look I-

2/??

[nonstopnarcissist]

I mean it, in theory, should be easier for you to process? More flavors, sure, but none of them are boiling hate- [ He drums his nails against the reactor casing, chewing on his bottom lip. ]

3/??

[nonstopnarcissist]

But the ratio of cream to sugar to coffee shouldn't be so off that you're overwhelmed with bitter and that, I think, is the bulk of what you got with the earlier mug- on that note don't drink anything I'm drinking if I'm in the lab-

4/??

[nonstopnarcissist]

Nine times out of ten it's going to be awful, Jarvis has done the math, I've made Cap sick more than once when he forgot which mug was his- should I make you tea instead? You might like tea better-

5/5 ok i'm done

[nonstopnarcissist]

J- put in an order for- do we have tea? I don't think we have tea. Pretty sure we don't. Everything. One of all of the tea.

[destressed]

[ By the time all is said and done, he's having a really hard time maintaining that neutral disposition. Failing entirely, in fact, and trying his best to hide a ridiculous grin behind his cup, stifling a laugh with what surely must sound like the worst robot-simulated attempt at a cough anyone has ever heard.

Really just hacking and clearing his throat behind that cup for a second.

Ah yes, this has been a successful experiment. He is Very Pleased with the results. He has to swivel the chair away entirely, in fact, and face the wall on the other side of the room to keep his shit together.

Sorry, give him a second to get the composure back. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ Lucky for Bruce Tony's already pulled up a holographic display for a shopping list, googling- well. Tea. In all it's many incarnations. ] Look when I say 'one of all the tea' I mean one of all the tea, how many possible variations of tea could there possibly be?

Do you truly wish an honest answer to that, Sir?

Don't you take that tone of voice with me, we've fucked up baby's first taste test because I've got abysmal taste in coffee after I've been up for thirty six hours-

[ Falling into the familiar banter of giving shit to Jarvis, getting shit back, and problem solving this self induced problem, if he'd never mentioned bagels or the ability to consume shit Bruce never would've tried to steal his coffee and scarred himself for life on the very idea of tasting anything. ]

[destressed]

[ Well, now he just feels bad. Even so, when he swivels back around he can't quite wipe that look off of his face, that smug look, that way his lips just keep twitching up, something weird and- what is that emotion, what is-

Fondness. It's fondness, and is that something one sentient being should be able to feel toward another within twenty-four hours of knowing them? Is that something he should be capable of feeling at all? ]

Tony, Tony-

[ He interjects, trying and again failing to keep his voice at an even keel rather than- what, laughter? Amusement, judgment, what sound is coming through in the way he talks? Why is it, by the way, that he has the accent he does? The clipped sounding T, the way it's almost another syllable entirely, the way it dominates the word.

Something else to think on later. ]

I'm just- I'm fucking with you. It's good. It's great. Really.

[nonstopnarcissist]

Yes dear? [ It's as reflexive as it honestly isn't, as is the swivel of his head to the source of his name- Bruce. Who...isn't scowling. Who isn't coughing or sputtering or making that same viscerally disappointed face as he had with the first round of coffee. That's actively smiling with something like laughter in his voice and it takes most of the wind out of Tony's 'we must have tea so help me Tesla' sails.

Not enough to keep him from ordering enough to set up a small tearoom somewhere on the upper floors of the tower, but enough to keep from ordering one of literally every tea available.

Hell he might swing down now an then for something familiar and soothing like Jarvis 1.0, the human edition used to brew. ]

You. [ His brows draw down even as he smirks, eyes glinting with good humor for all that he's attempting to look stern. He's failing, mostly, but he really does make an attempt. ] You're trouble. You're a fucking troll is what you are. No respect in my own lab. None.

[destressed]

[ Yes, dear is certainly something to reflect on later, but for the moment it's all he can do to keep the cup hovering somewhere over his lips to obscure expression, because he's having a hell of a time maintaining control over it now. It's some kind of neural override, a built-in drive to have his expression try to match his emotion even as he's doing his best to assert a neutrality command.

He can neither confirm nor deny his designation as Trouble, and instead chooses to slowly, deliberately wheel his chair backward toward his workstation, quietly sipping the drink in his hand as he does so.

No comment. He pleads the fifth.

So much stuff to archive.

So.
Much.
Stuff. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ It's an auspicious start to what settles into a pretty comfortable partnership. Bruce maintains his duties archiving old data, sifting through what's useful and relevant and what needs to go in deep digital freeze while on occasion swinging up to Tony's workstation when something starts to be just on this side of harrowing or absurd to offer his two cents before rolling away.

More often than not it's enough to get Tony past the block that'd kept him from proceeding so- he's got a bit of a science bro in the lab now and he hasn't had that since fucking MIT. It's perfect. Very little changes.

Dum-E and U still tidy and make messes with the same frequency, Tony still doesn't sleep enough and when he does it's passed out hunched over his station or dozing on the sofa for a few hours before his night terrors jolt him back awake, prompting him to dive into version fifteen of whatever the fuck needs working on. Trial 1.2A of the glove arrow turns out to be the winner and Clint is sufficiently gobsmacked and delighted by it's delivery.

Just enough time for him to train with it before the Call To Assemble ^TM blares through the lab not three weeks after Bruce's activation. Tony doesn't have time for more than a 'have to go save the world, don't blow up the lab, be good' before jogging to the assembly stage and flying off after the quinjet for what ought to have been a milk run.

Surprise: It was not, in fact, a milk run.

Eight hours, scorched hair (Nat), six broken ribs (Rogers), a dislocated shoulder (Barton), moderate case of acid burn (Thor), and a pint and a half of blood later (Tony) they limp home, Tony opting to sit in the quinjet for the actual flight back while they debate the merits of prying him out of the armor. Ultimately they let him stumble back down to the lab for the assembly stage to disassemble the armor, something done gingerly due to a few warped peices along the shoulder and a particularly ugly inward pinch along his ribs that's actually cut into him, hence the lost blood. ]

Honey, I'm home- [ It's not quite a breathless rasp but- it's a near thing. ] Help me up to the- the thing.

[ He gestures to where he'd stood not nine hours earlier to suit up in all his red and gold glory that is decidedly more red than gold at the moment. ]

[destressed]

[ Bruce has, by now, become well acquainted with nervousness. Although he's taken to the lab like a duck to water, often throughout his three-week span as a sentient being he's prone to bouts of it. Generally whenever a new dilemma arises or things touch too close to the concept that he's meant to be humanish. When he's faced with something emotional or when he gets too introspective about his place, purpose, position, thoughts. Really, anything. He manages it pretty well, generally.

But not today. Today, it seems, he's coping really poorly after about the fourth hour. Jarvis is probably sick of his shit around the hundredth time he asks so you're sure this is normal and he's definitely alright, right?

It's just that it's a first for him, and one might say that having only a singular human social attachment isn't really emotionally healthy. Especially when it's the guy who, you know, made you.

He's on his feet before he knows it when Tony stumbles in, dropping a clipboard with a jarring sort of clatter that he immediately ignores in favor of taking up a position at Tony's side before he fucking falls over or something. It's like instinct, like reflex, to throw an arm around his waist and half guide, half carry him where he wants to go. ]

What the hell happened?

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ Tony hadn't authorized Bruce for listening in on comms chatter during missions because, hey, nerves? Kind of become obvious after awhile. He doesn't remark on them but he does try to do less startling shit when he can help it. A high strung AI isn't always a happy, productive AI and he bends where he can to keep life, as big and complicated as it is, as stress free and stable for Bruce. It's a work in progress because- not a lot in Tony's life, in his line of work is all that stable.

J gives vague updates when prompted, worry not really threading through his tone until, well. The hit.

And Tony stumbling into the lab. ]

Von Doom equipped his bots with jaws of life that aren't all that concerned with getting me out in one piece. [ He grimaces, holding onto a support above the assembly stage so the automated systems can start the 'damaged armor removal' process. ] This is gonna take awhile.

[destressed]

[ Honestly it's for the best, at this stage Bruce needs to stay far, far away from the comms. He'd have had some kind of meltdown or something probably, vibrated himself out of existence. This is one of those things he'll have to wade into slowly and adjust to over the course of some months rather than of weeks.

He's got a hell of a lot of uploaded medical data on hand, but after this... after this? Yeah, he's going to wind up developing a god damn MD's worth of knowledge.

It takes an uncomfortable amount of willpower to step back and give the assembly stage room to do what it needs to do, and even so he hovers a few distant feet away, one arm crossed and the other nervously fretting with his mouth. ]

Von Doom- that's a terrible name, that's... why would anyone keep that?

[ A beat, and then before Tony can answer his mouth is running again. ]

Should I be- do I need to be doing something? Do you need, like- a doctor, or... like maybe some orange slices or something?

[nonstopnarcissist]

Yeah- uh- fuck- [ Not jerking away is something he only manages out of years of practice at this point, holding perfectly still as the mechanical arms slowly start prying wrent alloy from around his wrenched shoulder. ] There should be a medkit by the coffee maker?

[ Somewhere he wouldn't forget it, somewhere he or anyone else would always be able to find it. The closer they get to the inward pinch along his ribs, the more worried he is about how deep this cut might be. Nothing's broken, Jarvis didn't record that, but he's bruised to fuck and the undersuit is a little damp in other places from surface lacerations. He's no supersoldier, no god, but he can keep up with them.

Has to. ] Should be a green tinged plastic sheet rolled up in there labeled 'in case of 'oh god why'? Bring that over.

[destressed]

Coffee maker.

[ He repeats, already striding off before Tony starts rattling off further instructions. He brings the entire fucking medkit just in case. It's a surprisingly hefty case even for him, but in a short second he's already got it settled on the floor near the assembly stage, popping the latches and rifling through it for oh god why.

Turns out it's stuffed behind a tin of what the fuck and a large box of 'Jesus Christ No'.

His nervousness cranks up a notch. ]

Listen, you should really- maybe- think about, like, keeping a staff doctor here on call or something, this is...

[ He tugs the sheet out and brings it over, displeased anxious wrinkles furrowing into his brow. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

Helen Cho keeps declining a partnership until she finishes her research in South Korea- but the results of our mutual attempts to keep me from dying like a moron are in that bag-

[ He's mostly free of the armor by now, hands white knuckle tight on the support above him, skin pale, jaw clenched as they start to pry up that one fucking gash. Hissing between his teeth Tony wills himself to stay conscious, swallowing past bile and god knows what else. ] Nnngh ok as soon as this comes free I'm gonna bleed. A lot. The bots are going to cut the undersuit away and you need to- to-

[ Gentle as they're trying to be, one jolt is more painful that the rest, prompting a string of vicious Italian obscenities. ] snap the blue disk in the corner of that sheet and paste it over the wound. It'll adhear and keep me from bleeding out.

[destressed]

[ And it's on this day Bruce discovered a fantastic new coping mechanism: clinical detachment. Tony's lost a lot of blood, he's going to run out of willpower soon enough and pass out, or go into shock, and there's going to be just him with his boots on the ground needing to keep this shit under control.

He doesn't actually need to breathe, but, you know, deep breaths. He nods jerkily, feeling around the sheet for the disk. ]

I can do that.

[ Whether he's telling himself or Tony, well, hard to say, but at least he sounds... reasonably confident about it, shifting forward, waiting with muscles maybe a little too tense. ]

[nonstopnarcissist]

[ Lucky for him, there's a disk in each corner for moments like this. How frequent has shit going sideways become a thing for Tony that he plans his advanced medical tech around it? Way, way too frequent. Jarvis Despairs. Tony? Clings to awareness as the last of the plating is pulled free, assembly bots peeling and cutting the undersuit off his right side to expose a long gash, shallow at the extremes, deepest in the center. Without the suit and it's medical foam holding the wound shut it begins bleeding freely again.

Oh. Fun. ]

Yeah, now would be good?

[ Before he passes out, ideally. ]