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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I do. Please, make yourself comfortable. I need to change out of this so I can reach all the ports." Rattled. That's the only explanation for how he was foolish enough to let Silva come back with him, to let him in so he can see what comes next.

Still, better to be ashamed than worry that some mad space-box overrode Silva's mind and was using him to do who knows what to the Barge and her systems. Q frowns and slips away, into the bathroom to change into a pair of drawstring sleep trousers. He can't wear a shirt if he wants to be comfortable and actually rest.

Without a shirt to cover his skin, the traceries of faintly glowing wires are far more visible. A mirrored pattern that runs under his skin, alike but not identical to his nervous system. There are eight ports that run down his spine and each of these is surrounded with a dense cluster of glowing wires.

Don't mind if he do. He supposes this is convenient for both of them, though it's curiously delightful that Q has allowed this. They have been only infrequently antagonistic to each other, mostly when Silva eggs him on deliberately to get a rise out of him, or at times when more sensitive subjects arise that they can agree to disagree on.

He is here to learn the error of his ways, to earn redemption. He can rewire himself. But this time, help is needed.

But it's a far step between 'not overly antagonistic' to 'invited to room and be shirtless'. Silva gives him an appreciative look. Because he does appreciate that form. And what has changed about that form.

"Would you like a hand?"

He would not, no. However, Q is nothing if not pragmatic and it would be beneficial to have a bit of assistance with the worst of it.

"I can manage the mainline, but if you would be kind enough to hand me the other cables, it would be appreciated." Right then. This is madness, but what isn't in this place? He takes a drink of water and then goes to sit on the modified chair.

The mainline is the thickest cable and the one with the wicked looking flexible spike at the end. Q leans forward, holding his hair out of the way and then slowly, with steady hands, begins the process of tying himself into a machine. It's not until it clicks home and he turns to lock it that he relaxes. In fact, it's probably the most at ease Silva has ever seen him.

That looks...uncomfortable. And yet, from the slump of shoulder, the line of his back, it must not be. It must be very comfortable.

He crosses the room, easy as anything. The hesitation isn't so much hesitation as it is examination, both the lines and the ports. What an angle. What a delight. Were he a far worse man, he might take advantage of such a position.

A cable in hand, he leans down to more easily pass it over to Q. Brushes against skin.

Leans farther down, his breath on Q's neck. He is not a far worse man, but when is he one to resist temptation? The barest touch of lips against a port.

"Why don't you want people to see how breathtaking you are?"

Q's eyes have returned to that smooth, oil-slick black, so that when he turns to look at Silva he's at his most inhuman. He doesn't speak, but doesn't push the other man away, either. For now, he merely takes the cable and slots it into the next plug.

There's a soft hum when it connects. Either Q made it, or the power cable did. Who can tell? He's certainly not about to give up his secrets. Well, not all of them. A modified Alexa sits on a nearby table and appears to power on and speak with Q's own voice: "Why should I? I'm not for their consumption."

Now that's interesting. He gives the device a cursory glance before settling back on Q. "There is a difference." Might as well pass the next cable along. Fingers this time trace over the edge of another port, over digital lines under skin.

Still very close, dangerously close for anyone like Silva to be. But perhaps Q is incapable of caring overmuch right now.

"A difference between showing yourself off for all to see and merely not hiding that which you are."

Fighting off whatever that thing was turned out to be far more exhausting than expected. While Silva might've plugged himself directly into it (bad idea!), Q still had to contend with its wireless attempts to connect (very rude).

As the next cable is installed, Q has to turn his head to smother a yawn. His circuits are glowing a gentle, pulsing blue and he looks content. The clipped and cool voice that comes from the Alexa is in marked contrast to the lazy expression of his body. "Old habits die hard. I can't see that it would do me any good to flaunt this particular mess about. I've made myself useful as a medic and that's more than enough for me."

"I do not enjoy being seen by others."

"Then I will cherish the fact that you let me see you."

And touch. The touching is nice, too, even without the pleasant buzz of connectivity between them. And so long as he isn't reprimanded for it? Then he sees no reason to stop touching.

More cables passed in relative silence. Oh, there are conversations to be had, but they are both exhausted. Silva tries to hide his, but getting overloaded by an alien device makes his attempts rather moot.

"I shall leave you to your beauty rest, hm? It would do no one any good were the medic be too tired to help."

The body on the chair appreciates the closeness. He may, just once, lean into the touch rather like an aloof cat. In any case, once all the ports are in use, he gets himself comfortable on the strange chair and appears to fall deeply asleep.

"I'll still be awake, but the, ha, peripherals need to recharge before I can go on walk-about again." You know, like a set of bluetooth headphones or a wireless keyboard. Instinct tells him to be a good host and offer Silva whatever he needs to be comfortable, but experience has him stay silent.

"Then you do not mind if I stay?" He was going to anyway, but if Q's going to be all awake about it, then he'll be polite and ask. "Perhaps you would in fact prefer it."

Silva gives the not-so-sleeping Quartermaster's hair a small ruffle before moving away. It could be so easy, he thinks. He is a hacker of the highest caliber, now with enhancements to go with it. And Q so bright and vulnerable.

Were he a far worse man.

As it is, he settles himself heavily down on the edge of the bed, lets his head hang forward with a drawn out sigh. You are not a young man anymore; you ought to stop doing such reckless things. Old habits. Dying hard.

"You are welcome to stay." If he chose to try and hack into Q, it might not end well for either of them. He knows how vulnerable his body is and has likely taken some steps to protect it.

"Just don't eat crackers in bed." Har har.

The ambient lighting in the room dims, but the steady pale blue pulsing of Q's circuits cast an eerie glow. "If you need anything, let me know and I can direct you."

The glow does distract him for a bit, watching with a tilted head, finding comfort in it. Beauty. This is art, not some dreary Turner.

"I think what I need is to follow your lead. Not beauty sleep; there is only so much that can be done with this." With a motion to his own face. Self-depricating or egotistical? Both?

Part machine he may be, but his rest comes naturally, for better or worse. Off with the shoes, he's not a slob, but not dressing down as Q has.

Unsettling dreams are old hat to Silva, but these are new. His fitful sleep comes with shades of green, tints of grey, indecipherable ciphers. A melody, or something like it, almost drilling in. It wants to strangle him, the codes want to wrap around him and squeeze, he's certain of it, bind his fingers and isolate his mind, make him toothless.

Waking consists mostly of rubbing at his human eye irritably, remembering how breathing works, and checking, checking, rechecking that all systems are nominal. Nothing to indicate infection.

Throughout the night, or what passes for night in space, Q's body recharges. By morning, the circuits will have grown further over his body, all the way up his neck, curling along his jawline, and rippling with pale blue light. Every day that they've been in the breach, it's been advancing and changing him more and more.

He's silent as he sits up and begins to remove the cables. Once the mainline is removed, the circuits fade, his eyes return to a more human appearance, and his posture loses that laxness. Today, they're going to need to take apart that thing, just to be sure that it's well and truly dead. He's going to need tea, a hammer (...just in case), and as much as he might not want it, he does need Silva's help.

Despite the dreams (he hopes they're just dreams), rest is rest, feeling much less on edge. It's better. He'll take better. Only for a moment does he check his surroundings before remembering exactly where he is.

Check the network, nothing has burnt down and his Warden still seems to be fine, so nothing important.

"Funny now to know how it is to be a computer coming out of sleep mode."

Good morning, in other words.

As Silva speaks, the lights slowly turn back on until the room is day-bright. Q has already put the kettle on, and even with a full charge, he's still not the most chatty person before he's had a cup of tea and breakfast.

Look, he's even set out a second mug. That's real hospitality there.

"I took a look at my own code, which was a surreal experience." Because of course he did. He can't make heads or tails of most of it, and wasn't too keen on tinkering at random, but the temptation was too great not to.

"Do you not have dreams when you are like this?"

If he could take himself apart and examine all the pieces, he would. But this will not last forever, and he's not about to try tinkering with his own face, not like this.

He stretches, slow, with a few audible pops. Without a change of clothes, he looks downright rumpled. And doesn't seem terribly bothered by it, at least. "It helps the brain to relax, unwind, unpack, you know."

"Like this, no. I can't sleep. The body rests, but I'm always humming along the wires." Even now, he's uploaded somewhere else and just using his body as an extension of who he really is.

"It's not ideal, but I suppose I ought to use this time to get a few things done. I'm able to work a good deal faster this way." When he's not constrained by being human, it's easier to just will code and ideas into place. "I think it's a very good thing that this won't last. I don't want to be lost in the machine forever. For a little while, it's novel. Forever? No."

He mulls it over, adds some ...Q, are you adding powdered non-dairy creamer to your tea? That is almost repulsive. "I don't have much in the way of food here, but you're welcome to whatever you can find in the cupboards."

SIR what are you DOING.

"I can go to the dining hall and deliver breakfast in bed, as it were. I could even get coffee. You English and your tea, bah."

The description is...well, he can see the pros and the cons. Losing oneself tot he machine is the subject of many a novel, but in this case, it's a very real possibility.

He shuffles over to stand by Q, in fact in the personal space that he always so readily ignores, deliberately brushing up against him. He'll malign tea, but he won't turn down the offer of something caffeinated to drink. "You are changing the barge to suit you better on a larger scale, perhaps? I have found, hm, many blocks, like firewalls in a manner of speaking, but it may also recognize that an inmate shouldn't be poking his fingers in so many pies."

What he is doing is making something good to drink. Sometimes he even adds in some coffee for a proper 3-in-1. Speaking of, there's an utterly unkind smile as he gestures to the cupboard: "I think there's instant in here."

Uncultured swine. Then again, this heathen can't seem to help but lean into Silva's space. That not-quite static seems to do something for him.

"I wouldn't say I'm changing the barge as a whole, but I've been doing some work in my quarters." There might be a couple of half-built and curiously articulated robots in a box somewhere. A roomba with a knife on it or something like that.

He grips his chest in mock shock. Instant. Madness. "Your tea wins this round, dear, but I will have my coffee later."

Mmm, the touch is quite nice. He'll even be a good boy and keep his hands mostly to himself, for the moment, for tea and waking.

"Good to keep busy with what you can. Mine, she has no mind for computers, still insists to call it magic. I think to annoy me. But she looks as though she is ready to stomp out the nearest fascist regime, and I take pity on anyone who tries to cross her." He chuckles into the mug. "So we each do what we can in these strange times."

Q makes a small, non-committal noise that Silva might be able to recognize as a sound he makes when content. If he's talking, he's thinking too much and usually putting up a front.

"I will admit fondness for anyone willing to put the boot to the jackboots." As he drinks his tea, mentally scrolls through the network, watching others react or interact with their various neon-light cyberparts. Someone's built a working TRON cycle and that's tempting.

"Shall we take some time apart or go deal with the damned thing once we're done here? It will most likely disappear once the breach fades."

And that's the opening he was looking for. Time apart is, in its own right, a fair idea. Some food, a shower, change of clothes, some quick check-ins with people of varied import--

Time apart also means apart. And so. He traces fingertips up Q's spine. Well, beside it anyway, what with the ports there. "Do you want some time apart?"

Little sparks and shivers flutter along his circuits, some of them bright enough to glow through his shirt. Q's face remains impassive, but he can't hide so easily.

"Yes, I do, but I think it best to finish this." He's having trouble integrating his mind and, well, his peripheral. Physicality doesn't translate neatly into code and knowledge. From behind a piece of furniture,there's the sound of a roomba powering on. 00Stabby might not be the best chaperone, but Q is doing what he can.

"Watch your ankles. She's vicious."

He doesn't remove his hand, fingers lingering in the neat curve where shoulder and neck meet. But he laughs at the new arrival, delighted. "Oh, she is feisty, I see! Or rather, you are, hm? I hope you don't feel threatened by my presence. You did invite me, after all."

He wants to turn his head and buss his cheek against Silva, but that would be a shockingly poor idea. Perhaps he ought to just drink his tea and coo at 00Stabby. "A bit of both, I think. I can control her, but I don't know how much of her actions are, er, programming and how much is some subroutine in the back of my mind."

When you're mostly machine, your subconscious is a strange creature.

"I did invite you and I have a healthy respect for your abilities, which can edge into a threat."

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

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