oedipusrat | TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

[several months after this initial interaction]

Rachette doesn't kick in the door. She's not a barbarian. But the door is definitely opened in a manner that is heavier and harder than strictly necessary. Being The Warden was pain enough; being a warden is...irritating.

"He talks too much."

That's a possibly very petty thing to complain to the mage (who has explained to her that he is not a mage, but she remains not entirely convinced of this) about his...companion? Compatriot? Person from his same world. But talking to her inmate, a man who seems to prefer the name Silva to any of the other potential names he could be going by, is as frustrating as talking to Sten sometimes. Roundabout. Never to the point. Why does nobody ever just say what they mean?

The dwarf huffs and blows a few strands of silver hair from her face. "He uses too many words in strange ways. Would it kill him to just talk like a normal person instead of blathering on? Before I kill him."

She won't. That's not what she's here for, and he hasn't given enough reason to make her want to. But by the Stone and all of the Ancestors, he makes her job so difficult. Fighting a mob of darkspawn sometimes seems preferable.

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When the breach came, Q felt a sudden, strange pain and blacked out for some time. When he woke up (powered up?), he found that he knew the exact time and that there was some sort of HUD embedded in his glasses.

...although, even when he removed them, he could still see and feel the flow of energy and data around him. Without a conscious thought, he could read the network. Scowling, he made his way to the bathroom and then, once he learned a little more about his state, sat quietly on the floor for some time. The tile was cool, the world was too strange for words, and he was just going to rest and hide for a little bit longer.

-=-=-=-=-

Time passes, Q keeps his neck covered, and then does his best to help out those that aren't as easily able to adjust. Of course, nothing is ever simple on this ship. It's several days into the breach when he finally runs into Silva. "Er, hullo."

"Q." Amicably neutral. Something flickers across his HUD, registering as unusual, gone again in a moment. His eyes flick away for a moment. An urge to chase, like a dog with a rabbit. But no, stay here, now.

For now. Refocus on Q.

"You are taking to this much like a duck to water, yes?" His smile is almost right, but the metal down his cheek, into his upper jaw, makes it stiffer and lopsided. "A veritable playground for ones like you and I."

"Very much. I've missed being able to take apart and tinker with abandon." He's had his fair share of basic tech support for those that are utterly unable to adjust, but that irritation has been tempered with those that let him examine, explore, and adjust the new technology woven through themselves or the ship.

"And you? It's all very Gibson, isn't it?" Tragically, he did not get mirrorshades or razor nails. "Molly Millions and Johnny Mnemonic, but no psychic dolphins, not yet."

"It's a wonder I haven't dreamt of electric sheep yet. Feels a bit as though I've fallen into Night City." He knows references, too. Something about this feels off. He can't put his finger on it.

"Have you been tinkering with the people, hm? Getting your fingers," with a waggle of his own, "onto and into them?"

"Only when asked." He's offered, a few times, when people have been grafted into technology that doesn't work as well as it should. Most passengers know how to manage a sprained ankle, but they're clueless when it comes to a misaligned servo.

"I've never had to be a medic before. It's novel." He wonders if Silva would flip over a stranded turtle in the desert. Probably. "Which, actually, I could use your help. There's something that's been broadcasting a jamming signal and it's been giving quite a few of the wardens a nasty headache. Would you come with me? Help scroll through the frequencies?"

Maybe that's it? Jamming signal. But if he was picking that up, wouldn't that be stable and ongoing? Hrm. Investigations could give him something to focus on so he doesn't get too distracted by too many things.

He raises his eyebrows. "You need my help with such a thing? How times have changed. I am flattered. Well. Far be it for me to leave our saviors in pain."

"Do you trust anyone else onboard to even attempt to fix this?" He shrugs and gestures down the hallway that he'd been planning to walk along. "My biggest concern here is the way the signal has been cycling. It is not speech. It is not intelligent, but it's adjusting itself in a very viral way."

And while it's tempting to see what would happen if the ship were infected, Q is sure that it wouldn't end well.

Silva makes an interested noise and doesn't hesitate to make his way. "And in what manner is it jamming? The network, it has been...iffy, but I am told there is a degree of magic involved in it. Could be that which keeps it running still. But no one else should be broadcasting. Well--what would I know, everyone has some kind of degree of something about them. Hindering implants? Feedback?" Headaches is a concern, screeching feedback or constant noise--hm.

"But between the two of us, then none shall have worry. You are very clever, I very skilled, we make good partners, no?"

Q gives Silva a bit of a Look, but doesn't choose to contradict him. They haven't worked together in the past, but they're well suited to this particular problem. "Frankly, I'm not too sure what it's doing. I was able to get some manner of signal output when I was working on Julian's implants, but not enough to get a clear picture of what the thing is."

As he walks along the hallway, the lights seem to adjust themselves slightly. Not so much that it's immediately apparently, but just changing hue or brightness so that it's better suited to someone wearing glasses.

In another time, before, it would have taken him longer to notice. He would have noticed eventually, but having a keener, sharper eye has uses. There is much going on in this barge that he doesn't jump to any conclusions.

One thing he has to know, though.

"Are you cold?"

On occasion, the temperature systems on various decks in various sections have gone a little haywire, but here? Perfectly comfortable.

Yes, he's noticed the scarf.

"You don't think I could make an effort for the sake of fashion?" That might almost be a joke. Shocking. He shrugs, rolling his shoulders and pulling the scarf up and around his neck just a little more.

"No, I'm not that cold, but I am not as unaffected as I might be. I have the option of hiding my metal, so ..." So he has. That's all. It's nothing more or less. If all goes well with this odd jamming box, he will be able to go back to his quarters and stay out of everyone's way until the breach fades.

He doesn't stop walking, but he does slow up his step some. So. Not unaffected by this onslaught. "Convenient." Jealous. Just a hair.

But oh so curious.

"May I see?"

"I would prefer to take care of this jamming problem first." There's a coolness that doesn't entirely hide his discomfort. Maybe it's fear? Whatever it is, Q doesn't want to show it off here in the middle of a hallway.

Above them, the lights flicker.

His eyes (his eye) roll up, lips puckered, nodding a hair. All right. So. That's solved. It is clever boy.

And it's not a straight no. That's encouraging. Besides, they'd long discovered that Q has a certain want for rushes of adrenaline. And if fear does it, then...

"To work, then. Always before pleasure." So the work being pleasure is a plus.

Q seems to know just where he's going, occasionally stopping to consider the direction before winding deeper through hallways, past a couple areas that need Warden-level approval before entry. (You behave, Silva. These areas are boring, but presumably there's some reason they're not readily accessible.)

Eventually, they arrive outside a small room. There's a heavy, static-y sort of silence and a small, grey-green glowing object plugged into the wall. As he enters the room, the not-sound makes Q wince and shake his head. "Oh, that's, that's appalling."

"Ay, I can see why this would bring the pain." Silva's not immune to it, and the unusual sometimes-there signal is now fully there, big and bold and--it's a jumble, a lot of something just this side of static, and he flinches against it. The thought of plugging himself into that is disgusting when even from here the information he can gather is...is, is, it's something but it's not enough, a little bit maddening.

Breathe.

"Do we know, if it is even something...Earthly?" All sorts are on the barge, after all, not all human, or at least not all from Earth. Only one real way to find out, he supposes, but they might be stopped before they even start if it's beyond them.

It seems to really be giving Q some trouble. He scowls and takes off his glasses, folding them up and tucking them away in a pocket.

"I don't think so? Perhaps that's the problem. It's trying to pass on information in a way that is fundamentally incapable with us, our systems." He sways in place, and almost puts his hand out against the wall to stop himself, but withdraws at the last minute. Right where he had planned to touch, there was a sudden, almost fungal bloom of that green-grey light.

"...Silva. I think, perhaps, we should just turn it off. Tinker with it later."

"Give--give me a moment."

This is a former top tier agent of MI6. Have you ever known them to be anything but staggeringly reckless with themselves? Too smart, too curious for his own good. That had always been the case.

It almost hurts to look at, not for the glow, but for the information that is trying to get passed on. It may not be a jamming signal at all, just broadcasting something that wasn't compatible. The glow forming on the wall is new, though. Concerning. Maybe it is a virus of some sort, but one that's, what, physically infecting the ship? Reacts to, hm, proximity? Or to the presence of technology?

"If I can connect to it, I can figure something out. Shut it down from the inside, at the very least. Even alien code is still code. Like music is mathematics, there are things with order."

There's a cable in his hand, not unlike plugging ones phone into a USB port. The static is almost singing. Maybe he can make out the words.

"And if it's viral? What then?" The glowing spot on the wall has faded. Or has it? There seems to be a greenish shimmer creeping along the floor, through conduits and cracks in the roof.

"I do not want to have to ...what if it rewrites you?" He moves closer to Silva's side and while he doesn't touch, there's a zinging, humming burst of static between them. "It hurts, like biting on tinfoil, and I don't think it will be any less painful from the inside."

"You want an off switch?" Silva snaps, more due to the static sizzle than Q's concern. "Then fetch me a hammer."

Oh, there's probably an easier way than that, but Silva reaches out, picks up the device, and the glow brightens, cascades down his skin. "I am no stranger to pain, and I am the only one who rewrites myself." It's static but it's humming, and his HUD is glyphs and letters.

He attaches one end of the cable to his mechanical eye, the other into the device. For a brief moment, everything is green-grey and bright and shining and discordant song, pitching higher and louder, data swirling and somehow this, too, is loud, and he wants to reach out, reaches a hand to tap tap tap, to wrangle something in and make order, there is order, there must be order, and he can taste the color on his tongue, smell oh it's something sharp as ozone but sweeter, pull it out, pull a thread, pull it apart, pull him apart too bright too loud too much--

The next moment is black and nothingness.

It's always the Double0s, isn't it? Past, present, or whatever half-mad future this is, it's always the Double0s that are going to give him cause for a screaming breakdown.

As Silva plugs the damned box into his eye, the room bursts with grey-green light and coding drips off the walls. It runs up and over everything in there, trying to find a way inside, and Q is not having any of that nonsense. He grabs hold of the other man's shoulder and mentally shoves unwelcome data away. No, whatever this box is, it can't have either of them.

Green light and a softer, gentle pale blue go to war and...well, it's not a hammer, but Q does prefer to wear good, sturdy shoes. On one level he can try to disentangle them from some alien computing nonsense and on a more physical one, he can do his best to stomp the bloody hell out of a nasty box.

Silva's body sways, somehow conscious and unconscious at the same time. The pained features had faded to slack, and slowly, slowly his sense of being comes back to himself. Reboot. His head pounds. His mouth is dry and his skin is clammy.

And there is blue.

A beautiful, soft, light blue.

There's the sickly green as well, when his mechanical eye goes through its own little startup process and buzzes back to awareness. He may not be attached to it any longer, but it lingers nevertheless. Not as harsh, not so utterly overwhelming. But the static remains. It's not singing, at least.

But the blue hums something soft and enchanting. He's not sure if it's real. His senses are all out of whack, tingling, buzzing.

It's blue and it's Q.

The box flickers, squeals, flickers again under the assault, and then the green light abruptly ceases. And the glow around the room vanishes with it. Maybe it's broken, but at the very least it's off now.

It lingers in his mind's eye. In his mechanical eye. But it's not pulling singing screaming spiraling. The blue lingers, too. His HUD is a wash of colors, small alerts about his own systems, heart rate, blood pressure, but the "jamming signal" is gone.

He stares at Q, cable dangling out of an eye, the other wide, Unfocused and yet seeing him, or seeing beyond him, or seeing him. Sways again. Doesn't feel his legs give out, barely feels the floor coming up to meet him. He's still awake. He's still here. 'Here' just seems to be a variable term.

The light isn't just in the coding, but glowing in thin straight lines up his neck, the blue is visible through the thin skin. His eyes have gone entirely black with only the faintest pin-prick of colour gleaming at the center.

There's a final, angry snarl as he kicks the damned box once again for good measure before moving whip-quick to catch the other man before he falls. "Silva, come on. Let's regroup."

Does he need to drag him? He will.

Oh. Oh.

"Look at you," he manages, breathless and light. He is awed.

Q is also holding him, and he's not an insignificant amount of man, so that is also quite impressive. He'll be impressed by this later. For all he knows, he's floating.

Some of his nerves finally kick in, and he jerks a hand to his eye, likewise jerks the cable from hit. Breathes in deeper and huffs out long and hard. One leg kicks out, seemingly at random, nerves firing, but he grunts and makes it do what he needs it to do. Get a foot under him. Support some weight. The other leg is being uncooperative. Give him a moment.

"A hammer," he repeats with a laugh, finally starting to sound like himself in some fashion, internally struggling with his own systems until each part runs green (figuratively). Gets himself back on his feet. He looks worn. But he's here.

"A beautiful hammer."

"I'd rather you didn't look." A long pause as he shifts Silva to better support his weight. Anywhere they're touching, that same buzzing static zips between their bodies. It's not painful, or rather, it doesn't hurt in a bad way. They need to get out of here, if only so he can get some gloves. Heavy gloves and lots of space between them.

"I can't carry you, not far." This close he can almost hear the way data sings through Silva. That's what's beautiful.

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

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