bakerstreet | my blood is boiling; my brain's IBM

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[meme] shipping

my blood is boiling; my brain's IBM

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2018-08-17 05:53 (UTC)

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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited (detail edits) 2018-08-17 06:48 (UTC)

[ 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?

[ 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.

[ 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?

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.

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. ]

Edited 2018-08-17 16:52 (UTC)

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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ He doesn't need to even say anything, Bruce is already there applying it like a god damn pro with a carefully schooled expression and the added benefit of no physiological manifestations of nervousness. No shaking fingers, congratulations, Tony, you're right. He could be a fucking surgeon if he wanted to.

Which he doesn't.

But he does paste and smooth with carefully deliberate fingers, efficiently sealing the wound before it can cause any more damage than he's already got. ]

You're cognitive so you're not going to need a transfusion, but you should really lay down and elevate your legs. I can get an ice pack for the back of your neck, it should keep you from throwing up-

[ The last of the armor is off, the wound is closed, there's no reason he can think of for Tony to keep standing so, emboldened, he fastens a strong arm around his waist again and deliberately leads him to the workshop couch. All but carries him, frankly, given the way Tony's on the brink. ]

[ The sheet goes from transparent to opaque as the nanite structure starts the slow process of clearing debris, sterilizing, and slowly coaxing along healing. And applying a topical numbing agent which is half the reason Tony's legs nearly go out from under him. A sudden absence of pain can be just as startling as getting shot in the first place.

The other cuts are more cosmetic than anything else, the bruising's inconvenient and for once? he didn't take a header into a building so no concussion. Tony will gladly call that a win. ]

You're doing great, buddy.

[ A graceless flop of a hand against his shoulder that might be a pat, leaning more into him than away from him and, oh. Sofa? Good idea. ] Remind me to give you a raise.

[ He'll all but collapse when set on the sofa, eyes half shut, breath shallow as the sheet does it's work and Jarvis updates the rest of the team on his status. Injured but not critically which- is and isn't true but that's all they really need to know.

Never let them see you sweat, as the old man said. ]

You don't pay me.

[ He points out, doing his best to transition Tony gracefully onto the couch as opposed to dumping him. He gathers up some cushions to stick up under the back of Tony's knees, to get them a few inches above his chest. It should help with that about to pass out feeling.

A quick search through the med kit and he finds a snap-cold ice pack, and a second later he's cradling Tony by the back of the head so he can slip it under Tony's neck.

Research on advanced medical care skyrockets to the top of his priorities list, right under attending to the cuts Tony deems as cosmetic but Bruce sees as gateways to a staph infection. No, thank you. They're not nearly so dire, not nearly as consequential, so he drags up a chair and a rolling table. Starts laying out supplies- disinfectant, swabs, bandages. Silently taking in the status update Jarvis audibly gives on the rest of the team.

So this is what Tony does.

This is what he gets to look forward to.

At least now that he knows he can better prepare. Grimly, silently, he takes to cleaning incidental cuts near The Big One. ]

Edited 2018-08-17 17:43 (UTC)

Yeah I do. I think. J did we set up the expenditures account for him? So you can upgrade your space or the archives without having to bug me for them. Or. Something.

[ Rambling, clearly the best way to keep himself awake and aware. Second only to a mug of coffee but the odds of anyone letting him have that right about now are slim to none so. Rambling. He moves as he's shifted without comment or complaint, eyes fluttering shut the moment the ice pack settles under his neck. The armor's climate controlled, sure, and it wasn't really a concern of his but it does do wonders for the 'i think I'm going to sleep for the next week'.

He has to hand it to J though- this is a hell of a lot better than trying to handle this shit on his own.

Not that he'll admit it anytime soon, but. ]

Think you can hand me a pill from 'What the fuck'? I'm very aware of having bones in my shoulder right now and I'd like to be less, because it- it's not pleasant, let me tell you.

[ He makes a soft sort of hmm noise in the back of his throat like muted surprise, it's taken a back seat to the intense focus he's putting into his self-appointed medical duty. This is decidedly outside the realm of his primary drive as an archival unit, but he's going to take it upon himself to expand.

Personal Growth or something. He's pretty sure he's supposed to be proud. He can't say that's the emotion he has right now.

The swab he'd been working with gets set off to the side in favor of shifting through the kit for a tin of what the fuck. He runs a scan on the contents, a quick download of what they are, their strengths, their potential side-effects and their interactions. He pops one out of the case into his hand, and circles toward the cooler for a bottle of water to accompany it. ]

You're not on any blood thinners or erectile dysfunction meds, right?

[ He asks, seeking out Tony's hand to slip the pill into it. ]

Nope. Both are shitty, shitty ideas with what this- [ He lifts the hand not holding the pill to his chest, tapping the reactor. ] Does to my circulatory system and blood pressure. Not the best idea.

[ He'd be passing out regularly and that's just so gauche, isn't it? Fainting went out of fashion decades ago. Pill and water get swallowed and he blinks, waiting for the medication to kick in. All in all, not a terrible battle. He'll have to scrap a few systems on the armor, reinforce the plating. ]

J, double down on getting a good backdoor into Latveria's everything, alright? We flew in blind, we won, but we got our asses handed to us and that's a bad look for Earth's Mightiest Heroes, isn't it? It is. So. Get us in there so we can find a workaround for the doom-bots of 'fuck everything'. [ When in doubt? Work. Find the problem and fix it. They didn't know enough going in, that won't stand, so. Be more informed in the future. ]

Alternatively-

[ He starts, tearing off the backing of a bandage and smoothing it out on Tony's ribs. ]

You could, I don't know, rest for an hour?

[ You know, what with the precarious amount of blood loss and the pain medication about to kick in? ]

Watch golf or something?

[ He's given to understand that's the most placidly boring sport on the face of the planet but for some reason they televise it. Probably for people who need something to fall asleep to. ]

You've known me long enough to know how well I rest when I'm agitated.

[ Which is to say not at all. ]

I'm...I'm lying here, I'm wounded, and now you have to insult me. Golf? Why would I ever watch golf? That, that's not a sport, its a tragedy in eighteen acts. It's endless and agonizing and nothing happens. [ And he hates it. Every fiber of his being loathes it more than even, perhaps, baseball that he enjoys on a purely tokenistic level.

Tony scrubs a hand over his face and peers up at Bruce, trying to plce this expression.

Concern?

Worry?

He's oddly neutral which usually only swings into play when he's processing how he feels and- oh. Right. ]

Hey. [ It's a little less sloppy, him reaching out this time to squeeze Bruce's wrist. ] I'm fine. Really. The suit took the worst of it.

[ This is not only the second time Tony's touched him; he's had a few casual pats almost like Stark's been carefully warming him up to the whole thing, absent shoulder squeezes, normal human interactions that he's become acclimated to. Those are fine.

This is different. Maybe it's the location, or the meaning behind the gesture, or simply the fact that he's so laden with undisguisable concern even as his face does it's best not to tell. Whatever it is, it gently freezes him in place and pulls one corner of his mouth down and in, a concerned sort of half-grimace. He stops his deliberate fussing for a second, letting his hands fall somewhere still right on the edge of Tony's ribs. ]

The suit's made of metal. You're not. Doesn't matter how much it takes if you bleed out inside of it.

[ A flicker of something too quick to place, and then he adds: ]

Just makes it a really expensive coffin.

Medifoam was delayed in deploying due to how the external plating was damaged. We're looking at that, trying to find a workaround. It might be time to consider the remote piloting project I started up a few versions back.

[ Because if they get a call out while he's still laid up? They can't be down a heavy hitter. They can't. J can take the controls decently enough but he doesn't have the same sense of intuition, the same maverick piloting mania that Tony has which makes him an asset. It's- what he has to do to keep the world safe. At the cost of his own flesh and bone.

Considering how many people he killed through negligence and compliance with a system that only ever perpetuated violence? In his eyes, this is fair.

Not everyone sees it that way. No one else has to. ]

More or less. Pretty sure this'll be the thing that kills me. [ And he'll plan every way to avoid that, of course he will, but the smile he tilts at the armor in the repair bay is...bittersweet? More fond than resigned. It's a worthwhile cause, isn't it? ] That's why...I don't sleep. Why I need to be sure I've left enough behind.

[ Remote piloting would be an excellent idea, one he wholeheartedly supports. If Tony can accomplish exactly the same things, provide the same benefit from a distance? Bruce sees no downside to it. He's going to make a note of that, and gently move it up to the third row in his priorities list.

It just makes sense.

He presses his lips together for a moment, and slowly shakes his head. ]

I've assembled a profile thorough enough to know that trying to convince you that you have would be like beating a dead horse. I'm not going to, I just want to put in the token effort so my opinion is on record.

[ Ill advised as it might be, Tony shrugs. Grimaces only a little, eyes screwing shut through the ache that's dialed down to a tolerable throb. ] We need to be ready.

[ For what- he doesn't know exactly. But something's hanging over their heads, something bigger, stronger, better armed and better prepared than anything they've ever had to handle. He can't bite it until he's absolutely certain he's done everything he could-

and that he's left enough good behind on top of that.

At least he can count Bruce as a part of the latter easily. Laughing doesn't hurt much so, it's safe to chuckle, eyes peeling open, a thin smile on his lips. ]

Opinion noted. J, add it to the list with everyone else- though you do get points for being self aware.

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