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.

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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.

Cue the playlist, J.

[ Jarvis' quiet affirmative is indulgent, as it often is when Tony's toking it up, the most harmless vice Tony's ever really had in his long memory. Tony slumps deeper into the sofa, as though such a thing were possible, eyes going half lidded and lazy as he waits for some truly MST level bullshit to roll onto the screen. Most of it he's seen at least once but J keeps the films on some sort of randomized shuffle to keep things interesting.

While waiting for the credits to roll he turns a dorito around in his fingers, squinting. Mulling something over, something that's on the tip of his tongue before he cracks a wide smile and giggles. ]

Holy fuck, this is- [ He holds the chip up for Bruce, like that'll explain his brain's odd tangent. ] This is the exact ratio of-

[ Trickling into amused snorting doesn't at all explain him but, give him a minute, he'll get there. ]

[ As often as they are on the same page, unfortunately this time Bruce misses the boat entirely. The credits roll, he's still lost somewhere in the gaping misuse of the words reversing the polarity of the neutron flow like that means anything, and then Tony's squinting at a chip talking about ratios and-

An amuse smirk lights up his face because: ]

I have. No damn clue.

[ But Tony's giggling, and geeking, and he can only grin along waiting for the point, watching Tony's eyes crinkle at the edges. ]

J real quick bring up- just. Cap? Cap. From the back. Trust me-

[ Jarvis does, indulgently, bring up a still image of one suited up Steve Rogers walking away, something from a PR event a week ago, he doesn't remember, but the suit is on and tight around the waist enough for Tony to scoot over on the sofa just enough. Shoulder to shoulder, leaning into Bruce he lines the chip up with Steve's shoulders. Damn near breathless with laughter, eyes glimmering bright amber he squints, makes sure it lines up properly for both of them and murmurs- or tries to between spatters of laughter. ]

Look. Look- he's- he's a fucking dorito.

What-

[ He starts, and then there's Steve Rogers from behind, and Tony at his side, and the fucking-

The fucking dorito-

And he god damn loses his shit, slumps back into the couch and presses a hand to his face like he's trying to block the image out, like he's trying to smother his laughter, like he can never un-know- ]

Tony-

[ It's some mix of protest and disbelief and Jesus Christ but it's too breathless to really be chastising, it's just.

It's just too perfect. ]

America- [ He turns his face into Bruce's shoulder, cackling. Burrowed in against comfortable warmth, radiating joy. ] America tastes like cool ranch.

[ Oh god, Oh god he needs- he's got an idea and it's the kind of harmless bullshit that he adores about being a few steps to the left of his usual neurosis. ]

J text Pep about buying Frito-lay. Or offering an endorsement. This needs to be a thing, better yet we'll, mark this down, new project, 'Captain Dorito-' [ There's a special folder for days like this, because he does have ideas, often, sometimes they even lead to something useful. But most of them are like this. Bullshit. ] See if we can't make the next set of armor smell like these chips-

[ America tastes like cool ranch, he can't. His shoulders are shaking even with Tony pressed against them, that hand cemented firmly to his face, positively rolling.

Jesus Christ.

And then Tony's talking about an endorsement and his hand drops, head shaking, eyeing Tony like he's lost his damn mind but in the best possible way. ]

No- no, no, no way, come on- you're outta your damn mind.

[ But imagine it though.
A beat, and then: ]

He's gotta get his own flavor.

I'm a mad scientist, I'm always out of my mind-

[ His own flavor? His own flavor. Tony squints into the middle distance, suddenly somber as he tries to consider what would Captain America taste like.

Besides Freedom.

And salt. ]

Apple cinnamon?

Until they can make constipation a flavor.

[ He agrees wryly. As American as apple pie, as the saying goes. Not that he's had any one-on-one time with Steve Rogers, but he's seen enough recordings, press releases, internal notes, and Tony's own summation of the man to at least zing out a quip about him. ]

[ That cracks his somber expression like an egg, prompting another gale of laughter half muffled into Bruce's shoulder. ]

That- no- that's not all fair he's- he's alright. Salty but- [ reasons being a chip works. Still- Bruce should meet them. That should be a thing, meeting the Avengers.

When he's ready. ]

[ It comes with the spreading warmth of accomplishment, that personal feeling of victory every time he gets Tony to crack. To laugh, or to grin. It's doubled at the feeling of Tony's head on his shoulder, quadrupled by the thrumming calm of artificial weed in his system.

His eyes flicker over Tony's expression like he's trying to memorize it, to map it, to burn it into his long-term data storage. Normally he'd acknowledge this as staring, avert his eyes, settle his gaze somewhere else and just smile softly to himself.

Now, though, there's sci-fi playing absently on one of the screens before them, the world is soft, he slumps a little farther into the couch, and gets lost for a second, just... looking. ]

[ He should probably shift back to sit upright on his own, but- this is comfortable? So he stays, pressed against Bruce's side, eyes on the screen, tilting his face away in the odd moment when he takes a drag and exhales. Blowing smoke in someone's face is rude, he's trying to make Baby's First Stoner Experience pleasant and so far? It seems like they're managing. He's mellow, he's not wondering or worrying about everything under the sun.

Other than why the fuck The gelatinous blob oozing down the hall is considered a credible threat but, whatever, B movies are B movies for a reason.

He's...loose in a way he normally isn't. Lighter. Comfortable. His eyes halflidded, his voice lower, throatier, gestures aimless and fluid when he gestures to a particularly egregious bit of pseudoscience on the screen.

A lack of response has him tipping his head up to Bruce, staring back. Eyes honey gold and lashes thick, skin flushed with amusement- the earlier staring didn't register because he's so accustomed to being observed almost every hour of every day so- it's not weird? To him. ]

[ Normally when he's caught looking he does what every other reasonable, polite person on the face of the planet does: flicks his eyes away, or ducks his head, or generally averts his gaze. Normally he doesn't get caught, but when he does it's easy to play off as a coincidental glance.

This time, he doesn't look away. He's not sure if it's because his mind is softened and pushed into a forced sort of calm or if it's just... that Tony's eyes have never really been quite this close, save for that afternoon under the grating. To be fair, he'd mostly adamantly averted them that day, kept them locked on the ceiling or the floor to keep from going crazy. No, this is the first time he can remember seeing them up this close, with a hitch in Tony's brow and a gentleness at his edges. They change color, he thinks. From a distance they're dark, deep, brown and sometimes almost black, but up this close... With this sort of light... they're almost hazel, or-

Maybe it's the nuanced details that keep him there.

Maybe it's that his mind goes blank just for a bit, long enough to forget manners. Long enough to go on a stoned tangent and imagine what it might be like if he were to shift forward. Daydreaming, for a second, a long and vivid thing compressed into a brief moment in a way that only weed can make you do. He disappears down a rabbit hole in his mind, an alternate reality where he leans in and clears the distance between them. Can almost feel it, too, because he's got a photographic memory and an advanced learning system, because he's got an imagination that can create scenes from packets of data, and the only thing that's missing is the physical sensory input.

He could find out.

It would be easy.

It would be.

He lists gently, absently forward. ]

[ It was supposed to be safe, this face. Tony is aware of his usual type. What he looks for when he's looking and thought it'd help him build something he could avoid stumbling into the gross 'i built this bot so I can bone it' sci-fi bullshit that happens so often in popular culture which, ew? For so many reasons. The power dynamics being fucked, the lack of practical experience, the 'born sexy yesterday' trope which he's always found distasteful as a point of titillation. So he made Bruce...safe. Not hideous, but not GQ model gorgeous, he had enough of those running around the tower. Square jaw, full lips, heavy brow, an assortment of attributes he knew would be striking to some but easy to glance over for other and wouldn't be a danger.

He neglected to consider what it'd look like when Bruce began to emote. When broad shoulders hunched in and thick wrists flexed while he worked intuitively with the holograms Tony threw at him. The way his brow furrows, the stupidly distracting habit of touching his own lips. The way everything goes soft and easy when he laughs, when he's amused- or the slow wound tension when his hate-boner for Von Doom kicked up, when protective frustrations for Tony, even against some of his habits, left him scowling and curt.

The chassis- nothing special when it was hollow. Bruce? Bruce is what made the body beautiful and that's a dangerous thought. One that's slow to come and slower still to sink in, he ought to be worried about the proximity but-

Passive in a way he usually isn't, Tony tips his chin up to meet Bruce's gaze. Waits- listing close is, he could be losing balance, could have a point to make and until he knows? Until he's certain he- he'll wait it out. Let Bruce decide what this is. Where this goes.

Because fuck if he has any idea. ]

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