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

Entry tags:

[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

I think they've done studies that prove assholes move in flocks, like seagulls.

[ He answers, sounding every bit like a jaded David Attenborough doing an episode of Blue Planet or something. Just a casual statement of fact on the nature of the migratory habits of assholes.

He doesn't miss the use of the term. The categorization, the definitive label. It's nice, one he'll reflect on later, one that puts a warm, glowing coal in his chest. Something that radiates heat out, something he can't identify. It's not attraction, it's... he felt it once before, back when Tony was injured. Something like... anxiety and... other pieces, something complex. He never got around to finding the right word, the right name for it. He feels it again now, and even still he can't remember what the emotion's supposed to be called.

He doesn't sweat it. He's got more important things to focus on.

He finds his fingertips moving absently, tracing a back and forth pattern up and down Tony's arm. This is what people do, right? He'd seen it earlier today, seen a guy with his arm around a girl, seen his fingertips traveling up to shoulder then down to elbow and back again, back and forth for... as long as he'd looked at least and, presumably, longer.

He does it now because it seems like it might help. He imagines the sensation, imagines it to be grounding, calming, nice. He thinks those are all the right message to put forth without saying it in so many words. ]

I got one, actually. [ He admits, sounding a little surprised Tony didn't know it already. ] On Amazon. You're already in it, but clearly I'm going to have to relabel you if this is war.

[ It is just as grounding, just as soothing as it looked. Jangled nerves settle, every inch of him that had been spinning in his head or pinned to a sofa half a hemisphere away several years ago just sinks right back into the dark tide of memory. Ghosts that were screaming in his ears are banished in favor of the driest, wryest commentary to come from anyone that wasn't Rhodey or Jarvis and this? This is how he knows Bruce is his friend. Because of the amount of shit he gives Tony, how often he tries to check him, keep him from doing stupid shit.

Whatever the tension had been yesterday? It feels not only gone, but broken. This needed to be established. That he's a mess, that Bruce doesn't mind-

And that they're friends.

He's got so few, he can count them on one hand easily- including Bruce. So few he trusts this deep and, is it fair if he's made him? It is, since Jarvis is one of his oldest friends too. So it's not new. ]

If it's not a Starkphone I'm docking your pay. Just so you know. If you ordered an I phone I am going to dissemble something you love and turn it into a microwave. If it's a fucking Windows whatever you're going in the corner with Dum-E and the hat.

[ There's a long moment where his words hesitate but his hand doesn't. Finally, he admits: ]

It's a blackberry.

[ And he knows, he knows as soon as he says it he's going to get shit for it. He knows, and it's clear in his voice that he knows, like's he's admitting guilt, like he's ready for the onslaught.

Not just because it's not a Starkphone, but because it's not an Apple or a Samsung, it's not even an android. Before Stark can even say a damn thing, he adds: ]

Let me just- [ And he does the most toneless, most monotone version of Tony Stark the world has ever heard: ] "Toaster-stroodle, that's the VHS tape of phones. Bruce-Money, that's like the eight track tape of phones. It's the Zune of phones. The pager of phones. That's the phone other phones use when they need to call 911 because they've been shot and all their backup phone friends are dead in a ditch." Did... Did I miss anything?

...A Blackberry?

[ That is five different levels of incredulity, confusion, subdued rage, shame on Bruce's behalf, and sheer motherfucking offence rolled up in a single word. He takes a breath to get a good burn rolling because this is fucking perfect, it's all lined up for him, laid up on a silver platter just begging for it-

And Bruce goes and takes it all and says it his own damn self and he should stay offended. He should. He wants to. He's got his brow furrowed from where he's squinting up at him, his jaw locked, and a few explicit gestures ready to throw but nope. Bruce has every single thought he'd had laid out in turn like he was expecting it, because he was, because he knows him and gets him and how fucking dare he call Tony out like this.

Unfair. Rude. ]

That's the phone Telegrams look at and go 'damn, you basic.' [ Then and only then, with that cherry on top, can he lose his shit laughing again. High and bright and graceless, helpless, not the PR chuckle or the raggedy, hysterical thing from before. Not the breathless huff or the practiced friendly, wholesome thing or sarcastic snicker. This has fucking snorts in it, Tony's nose screwed up, eyes squeezed shut as he wheezes. ]

Fuck you, how dare- that is- that's unreasonable, that's insulting, that is slander.

[ He can't help it. He can't. His head falls back and he laughs, breathy and genuinely, at the ceiling because- okay, the delivery on that one was just... It was good.

He laughs through Tony's laughter, he laughs through the protests, he just. He can't help it.

And then he knows.

He knows the name for that feeling. It almost makes his stomach bottom out, almost rips his breath out of his chest.

All he can think, really, is: Oh, hell. That makes sense.

It's why Elizabeth Ross won't work out, why her colleagues are just distant thoughts without names to him still because he's forgotten them all, it's why no other set of shoulders will really do it for him quite the same way.

Yeah.

Makes sense.

Sadly, quietly, and with no small amount of resignation, he accepts it. ]

[ Tony's still wheezing by the time his fit of laughter has passed, wiping at his eyes, face half burrowed into Bruce's shoulder because it's there, it's warm, it's solid and it's safe. Every last thing that felt like it was going to kill him half an hour ago? Out of his mind.

He can't regret helping Bruce become...Bruce. Giving him bones, giving him space to grow and figure himself out. He won't. And he won't apologize, not when this is the result. A person. No more, no less, a complicated, creative, fucking brilliant person that's still learning and growing and adapting at a fascinating rate, with wit and humor to spare and oh fuck there are so many red flags here.

So many.

The biggest would be that he was willing to Fight Pepper on this. It's not something he does much of anymore, not since the split, it's not often worth it but this? He was braced for it and would in a heartbeat. Everything else is set dressing. Bruce- matters.

The way Pepper Matteres. The way Rhodey Matters.

Why does he have such a fucking type? ]

I'm serious- I'm gutting that thing as soon as it gets here and replacing it with a Starkphone. No friend of mine is walking around with that antiquated bullshit.

[ It's sort of a testament to how absorbed in fighting Pepper he'd been during their trip, he supposes, that he hadn't noticed Bruce punching in the phone numbers of a few microbiologists in a lab at the museum of national history.

He shifts, left arm still wrapped around Tony's shoulders but the right dipping behind him for his right back pocket.

And there it is, the fucking Blackberry, which he holds out like he's surrendering contraband. ]

Knock yourself out.

[ He says, sounding equal parts resigned and amused.

He's not all that attached to it, if he's honest. It'd been like the Prius decision had been; sensible, not overly flashy, reliable, probably unbreakable. Let him gut it if it'll keep him busy and keep the laughter in his chest. ]

...Jarvis I'm blaming you for allowing this into our house without saying anything. You're grounded.

I'm a building, sir. I cannot possibly be more grounded.

[ Which only prompts another wave of helpless laughter, nothing but sass and salt today. All he needs is Dum-E spilling something on him to make a point and the trifecta will be complete. ]

I will find a way to make a dunce cap large enough for this tower, J, don't think I won't.

[ He won't, it'd ruin the skyline but the mental image is enough to keep him laughing while he palms the thing, motioning to Dum-E to wheel over a tray of tools and circuitry for him to actually start working on this thing. ]

All of you are terrible except for Dum-E. Dum-E is the best behaved out of all of you right now, I want you to think about that.

[ The commentary, the back and forth, is enough to keep his lips quirking up into an amused, muted smile as he settles back into the couch. Lets his arm slip from Tony's shoulders, but keeps it thrown along the top of the cushions behind him. Room to work, something to fall back into. Feels like a safe choice. ]

Suck up.

[ He accuses the arm mildly, in good humor and not a trace of seriousness to his tone.

The worst has passed, and while it may just be a temporary thing, it's nice. Quiet, comfortable. Home.

When the big issues come up again-- and they will-- at least he'll have an idea of how to help deal with them. ]

[ Dum-E pivots to face his camera twoard Bruce, buzzes a tone not entirely unlike a raspberry-

Then flips his hand around to extend one of his three claws while keeping the other two closed tight. ]

Oh my god- did Barton teach you that? Barton taught you that.

[ It's anarchy in his lab. Disorganized chaos and that is the one thing that makes it home. More than anything else, more than the work under his hands and the warmth of Bruce's thigh brushed up against his, the buzzing whirr of a scandalized beep from U, who is truly the good child if Dum-E is picking up obscene gestures from their resident Hawk-guy.

It's a good night, replacing the innards of Bruce's phone and forgetting everything that had him wound tight in the first place.

But it doesn't last, not really. Rhodey has his piece to say in the morning which- that's fair. That's fine.

Then the lawyers with their questions, a psychiatrist wants to interview Jarvis to verify sentience before they breach the prospect of maybe dealing with Bruce. That'll be phase two of this whole ordeal. Then it's Pepper still not quite understanding, refusing to let Tony walk it off with an 'I don't know', an investor's meeting that drags on for fucking ever, a coding error in the armor that effects the navigation so he's benched for a mission that leaves Barton with a broken leg and Steve isn't blaming him at all but he'll carry that guilt alongside everything else without batting a lash because he should've been there to catch him-

Or at least been able to design a fucking parachute for him by now.

It's three, four days of this shit before he decides he needs to rearrange his schedule and make a few calls. A quick text to Toaster Bagel Triple Poop emoji (bruce) gives him all the heads up he'll need while he's out on the junkfood run and scheduling the takeout delivery. ]

Going to light up in the lab tonight, J's initiating lockdown protocol for sensitive aka dangerous experiments and tech. R&D's available if you need to work on anything.

[ Usually he doesn't do this alone but Rhodey is kind of pissed at him so. Smoking, snacking on shit that's terrible for him, and watching shitty scifi is the plan for the rest of the day. Tony's dressed down in worn cotton drawstring pants and an MIT tee when he comes up from the run, bags of chips, snack cakes, fresh fruit, and canned tea in his hands. Dum-E had cleared off the coffee table next to the sofa for him to start arranging this, the e-blunt (patent not really pending it's kind of illegal but whatever) and it's cartridges laid out alongside as he checks the time.

Just before nine in the morning. He plans to spend a solid twenty hours baked out of his mind- or at least enough that his mind shuts the fuck up for a day. A soft reset, keep shit from creeping up on him and dragging him down. ]

[ The text rolls in from 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆 as he's finishing up an email to Elizabeth. They've had a steady back and forth since the tour, an easy and loose sort of email chain that largely focuses on her work but with a few personal asides filtered in. She keeps recommending he go through the process of getting some kind of doctorate on paper, and he can't exactly outright tell her he has to have a name on paper before he can do that. He hedges with excuses, but tells her he appreciates the sentiment. It's nice.

As it stands, he doesn't exactly have a hell of a lot on the docket, and watching Tony light up is going to be a hell of an interesting afternoon, that's for sure. He's not convinced to join with the offer of the virtual equivalency of the feeling, but he's not against settling into the couch and seeing how it effects him.

Or seeing him fucking relax, that'll be a little novel too, in a way. He doesn't wander over until Tony's got his little station all set up, fruit and vape organized, drinks at the ready, looking like the most comfortable damn man on the planet.

This ought to be interesting.]

J's got this strain scanned in if you want to give it a whirl.

[ For the duration of days like this Dum-E and U are usually settled in their charging stations, compiling code, mostly to keep him from asking them to do ridiculous shit while under the influence. J knows well enough when to indulge him and when to ignore him. Bruce he trusts on the same level. The Bots? A bit too eager to please. He hasn't taken a single drag yet but the ritual of setting up his day of unwinding has already loosened some of the tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders. Makes it easier for him to settle into a casual, wide legged sprawl on the sofa, sinking into familiar cushions with zero grace or shame. This will be good. He needs to shut off for a little bit, it's fine, a little selfish maybe, but he's A) Not doing it alone and B) It's weed. It's not going to fuck him up in the longterm.

Mental pep talk given and taken? He slips the first cartridge in and takes a deep drag, filling his lungs. Holding it, he tips his head up, blinking as he counts down from ten before pursing his lips to blow a series of smoke rings. Old tricks that still fucking amuse the hell out of him.

As long as it's been- he coughs a little. Gets lightheaded but he's already on the sofa, already as close to boneless as he's going to get before this shit kicks in.

This shit smelling mostly of vanilla and strawberries thanks to his botanist/biochem hookup. Hell yeah. ]

J, remind me to send Dr. Palmer a fruit basket or something, this might be her best batch yet.

[ He pops onto the couch like he belongs there, legs propped up an crossed at the ankles, one arm crossed over his chest and the other absently playing with his lip as he watches. He seems, for the first time, to genuinely consider the possibility. It's not quite like being stoned in the sense that he wouldn't have to ride it out if he didn't like it. ]

I could, in theory, just terminate the experience if it doesn't interface well.

[ He muses, teetering right there on the cusp of peer pressure, how dare you-. No, teetering on the cusp of adventurous in the name of trying new experiences. Science. It's just potentially a little more intense than spontaneously swiping a sip of Tony's horrible death juice. ]

Mhmm. No need to ride it out if you're not having a good time.

[ Tony doesn't really have that option for himself, honestly, but since he's gotten ahold of his source and done some research to make sure the quality and chemical content of his weed is consistent? He hasn't needed it.

The next drag is just a s slow, just as smooth, and he coughs less after the exhale. Air scrubbers in the lab usually meant for hazardous fumes have been reconfigured to handle the smoke, whisking away any sign of Tony's indiscretions. ]

[ He gives it another moment or two of token consideration just... because he's a wary bastard at the best of times, even when he's got a clear out if he wants one. Ultimately, though, he's made his decision before this whole thing even started he just refuses to admit it.

His eyes flicker up to the ceiling as he accesses the data store, considers the levels associated with it, and reluctantly downloads the patch.

Here we go boys. Bring on the reefers. ]

[ Tony lifts his e-blunt in salute, smile small for the moment. The more relaxed he becomes the wider it'll get, the lazier, but for now? Still kind of tense. ]

To new experiences.

[ Another round of smoke rings, one he staggers, trying to blow smaller, tighter ones through the larger spread of an older ring. Shit he used to do in college, back when he actually smoked. ]

[ He'd be impressed if he wasn't so intimately familiar with how much Tony's ego did not need affirmations for something like that. He only shakes his head in mild amusement, and drops his other arm to tuck neatly across his chest.

The download completes, the patch begins to install, and he monitors himself introspectively from a sort of clinically detached mental position. The background of his own mind, making small mental notes on his feelings as they adapt.

A slowly settling sense of calm. The slight delay settling in his processor, making time start to move more slowly. A hazy sort of... gap between the seconds, wherein one moment he's present and the next he's introspectively thinking about that moment, lost, a beat behind the world. Then he's back again. It's not... bad, it's curious as hell.

The only way he can describe it is to say it's the mental equivalency of the audio of Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb.

Hmm. ]

[ The first wave is always slow to creep up on him, only settling in when he realizes he's running at roughly 72% and half the random thoughts are no longer about the purity of the human soul and if building a digital one makes him god- and more along the lines of whether or not sheep need sweaters when they're cold (of course they don't) but it does prompt him bringing a search up on the big screen opposite them of sheep in sweaters-

Which since there's no consumption, isn't cannibalism but fuck if it isn't cute and hilarious. He snorts a quiet laugh after he takes another drag, setting his vape aside to grab a bag of doritos, tearing it open, and offering it to Bruce first. ]

A vital part of the experience, junkfood.

[ It's the abrupt, utter randomness of the search that catches him off guard. Not a single conversation, not a single anything preempting it, just a sudden search for sheep in sweaters and. A snicker escapes him, a breathy and disbelieving thing at the absurdity of the situation.

And also at the expression on those sheep. Wow.

Eyes flicker from the screen to the bag held open in offering for him and it takes him two, maybe three seconds longer than it ought to for him to realize what Tony's trying to ask. When he does, though, he slides a hand in easily and comes out with a chip. Sticks it in his mouth. Crunches down.

Okay. Yes he's starting to see the appeal.

He doesn't say thank you, or what the hell. No, instead, he mildly suggests: ]

Goats in boots.

[ Because. He wants to know if that's a thing. ]

[ If someone thought Tony's mind was strange, making irregular leaps in intuition and connections out of nowhere on a regular day? It's worse when he's been smoking. Reasons he doesn't design anything seriously since most of those leaps are ridiculous, from shearing to sweaters to sheep in the same and-

And Bruce? Is right there with him. Just the idea of goats in boots? Has Tony sorting with amusement. ]

You heard the man, J.

[ Goats in boots. It pulls up alongside the sheep in sweaters and for some reason that makes it better? Worse? Something in between? ]

[ His snicker doubles down, a breathy sort of thing he's having trouble controlling. He does an admirable job, though, keeping it quiet and under his breath at least. He is one hundred percent aware that it's stupid, that these two images are stupid, that he's stupid for laughing at them and it means without a doubt the installation of the patch is complete and he's in the come-up stages of being stoned.

It's going better than he thought it would. No rampant anxiety, no increase in artificial pulse rate, just. Calm, good-natured humor. Nice change of pace. ]

So this is what you do.

[ He comments, sounding amused and lethargic. ]

I'm not knocking it.

Not often.

[ He crunches on another chip, letting the last of the tension melt out of his shoulders. The core of it remains and will till about six hours in, but right now? Everything's easier to handle. Nothing's bearing down on him in a way he can't bear. Everything genuinely is just...fine. Good, even. ]

Slowing my brain down is- it's hard. Only a couple of ways that really work. Opiates, which I hate for personal reasons. Alcohol which- I'm not leaning into that shit again when I'm this stressed, it doesn't end well, been there, done that- [ He takes another long, slow drag, exhaling with a drawn out sigh, head tipped back, throat bare and bobbing as he swallows. ] A solid fucking, like, can't feel your legs afterward kind of ordeal which is complicated for so many reasons and doesn't last longer than the afterglow so, fuck it, not worth the attempt. Or this.

[ He rolls the slim shaft between his fingers, smile widening somewhat, shrug fluid as anything. ] Which is the safest possible option.

[ It takes him a beat to process solid fucking, but the second it does his throat makes a sort of clicking sound like it's closing on him. Eyebrows shoot up, but for once rather than feeling... uncomfortable, awkward, jealous, he finds himself... reflecting. What, he wonders, is it like to have sex so much you can't feel your legs? Or perhaps it's not... quantity, it's quality. Perhaps it's how well you do it, how long it lasts, the intensity of it.

It might become clear by the way his head gently tilts that he's tripping for a second, lost in thought on the fact that Tony's had sex with men and how, precisely, he prefers to go about that. There are a number of ways, he knows, and has read that often penetrative sex can be more of an afterthought in favor of a staggering number of positions designed to-

And then it's not the theory so much as a sort of vivid mental image of the back of Tony's shoulders and the curve of his spine and the reactor in his chest, and- ]

Can you... put something on.

[ He nods toward the big screen. Something other than pictures of goats. Something to keep his mind from wandering down that path. ]

[ Either or, honestly. When he was younger it was more about how much in one night he could get, but as he's matured, as release became less of a sure thing and more something worth cultivating- Quality became key. Being driven so far out of his head nothing but the bare lizard brain instinct remains. Which- it's hard to trust someone with that in the first place for a normal person, let alone when you're him. Harder still to find someone that'll not be an asshole afterward. Then the reactor happened and-

Yeah. Doubling down on trust issues became a thing. So.

Sort of flitted off to the shelf of 'not fucking likely'. Weed's safer, weed can't really hurt him. ]

Mmm? [ Right, visual stimuli. ]

Bad Sci-Fi or Spongebob?

[ He hmms over the choice for a second, debating, caught between the two like it's the most monumental decision he's ever had to make. Then, abruptly, his mind fixates and he decisively says: ]

Bad Sci-Fi.

[ Because he's a sucker for pseudo-science and pointing out the holes in things, because it'll keep his mind a little more invested and less likely to wonder over wrapping his hands around-

Or having a hand wrapped around-

This has to be a weed thing, right? Do people get... like this when they're stoned? ]

Really, really bad Sci-Fi.

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