ArchivedLogs:Science Fiction

Science Fiction
Dramatis Personae Doug, Dusk, Regan
In Absentia	2013-10-11 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Lunchtime is a busy time at this cafe, lots of students between classes, fewer but still plenty of businesspeople between work. It's hard to place exactly what category Regan is in, comfortable in a long-sleeved grey knit dress that falls to mid-calf, black ankle boots. Laptop on the table in front of her, hot coffee cooling beside it. Though the cafe is packed there's space at her small comfortable corner, an empty couch-end, an empty armchair around her little table. Probably due more to her companion than to /her/, people are leaving them Kind Of Alone. She seems comfortable enough here, though, leaning forward towards her computer to type while she speaks. "-- almost did go into the software side of things," she is admitting. "It was a hard call in the end." Dusk is no doubt the source of the wide berth their cozy corner is getting. He looks almost studentlike himself, old Vans sneakers, stripey green-and-white tee, backpack leaned up against the base of the couch he sits on. He's got /his/ laptop out, too, though he's largely ignoring it in favour of the woman opposite him. His forward lean towards her might look more intimate -- or might just look like holy crap these wings are hard to /fit/ behind him. His own coffee is cupped in his hands, carefully, strong and black and still steaming where it rests on his knee. "I kinda just stick with it because it's what I've always known. If there /was/ school I could've gone to -- I don't know, I certainly don't blame you, brains are /like/ computers but endlessly more fascinating." Doug looks /definitely/ student-like as he enters the cafe, dressed in a Superman t-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt of navy blue along with jeans and green Converse sneakers. He's got his laptop bag slung across his chest, and a backpack hangs from one shoulder. He doesn't notice Dusk right away -- probably due to the fact that he's currently speaking to another young man with thick black curls who seems to be very interested in what the blonde has to say. They continue to speak as they approach the counter and place their respective orders, and after they've received their coffees, they part a bit reluctantly -- the dark-haired boy leaving the cafe and Doug making his way into the cafe proper. It's then that he notices Dusk, and veers in that direction to offer his neighbor a bright grin. "Hey, Dusk!" The woman at the table gets a polite nod of greeting, and then Doug's back to Dusk. "It's lucky I ran into you. I got the card of that guy who restores those vintage electronic games." Regan glances up, when Dusk is addressed; she says nothing, but the questioning flick of her eyes between Dusk and Doug is easy enough to read. She closes her laptop lid with a light press of fingers, reaching to curl her hand around her mug afterwards. "Brains are computers," she does volunteer, with a soft hum of laughter, "just organic ones." "I live right below you," Dusk says with a quick flash of sharptoothed grin; his eyes skip from Doug to Regan and back. "I think you could've run into me pretty easily if you wanted. -- Regan, this is my neighbor, Doug. Doug, Regan. Not like the president. Only one a, plus not a douchebag. And way prettier." His weight shifts uncomfortably, shoulders twitching as his wings resettle. "That's cool, though, I still can't believe you have a copy of that." "Yeah, but it wouldn't have been today," Doug says. "I've got study group tonight, so I wouldn't be home until late, and knowing the way my brain's been working lately, I'd have just forgotten it." He ducks his head, and glances back at the door for a brief moment, then looks back with a bright smile for Regan. "It's nice to meet you," he says sincerely, giving Dusk a small sidewise furrow of his brow for Dusk's introduction. "He's right. You're /way/ prettier than the president." He sips at his coffee, crinkling his eyes at Dusk over the rim. "I lucked out. I did the guy a favor, and he'd /just/ finished restoring it. He's got some horror game with VHS stuff that looked pretty cool, too. I'll see if I can't snag that, too." "I imagine that by now the president looks somewhat decomposed. It's not a high bar to cross." Regan seems amused by this introduction, though, an easy smile on her face. "Game?" Her eyebrows tick upwards. Her eyes sweep over Dusk appraisingly. "Do you go to school around here?" "I hope it was a good favour. I wouldn't let one of those out of my reach." Dusk's gaze drifts around the crowded cafe, and one wing shifts, twitching out to indicate the couch beside him. "Were you planning on staying? S'not a lot of seating but." His fanged teeth bare in bright grin to Dusk. "For some reason nobody wants to sit here." He nudges his computer aside, closer to himself to clear more space on the table. "OK," he addresses Regan once more, "Brain-computer interface is one thing, they're doing freaking amazing stuff with brain-controlled bionics now but what about computer-brain interfacing? Controlling people's minds with technology? Who's out there working on that kind of thing?" Doug grins at Regan. "Still. It's ultimately a compliment." He nods at her question, juggling his backpack a bit. "I'm at Columbia," he says. "Computer Science major. You?" The indicated couch is claimed with a grateful look, the backpack slid from his shoulder and tucked up under his feet as he sits. Those nearby who fish-eye at this show of solidarity get a little glare in response before they're ignored altogether. "It was really more of a job than a favor," he confesses to Dusk. "He was actually getting kind of a break in the price. Not /much/ of one, admittedly, but still." He sips his coffee as the conversation shifts back to computers, and his brow furrows. "I would think that would be challenging to accomplish," he offers. "At least completely. The brain has infinitely more simultaneously-occuring processes at any given moment than a computer does." "Columbia, too. I did biomedical engineering for undergrad," Regan answers. "I'm working towards my doctorate now." The question of mind-controlling technology earns another lift of brows, a quiet laugh. "I'd say it sounds like science fiction," is her flat answer, but then a grudging, "-- and half the defense agencies in the developed world are working towards it. But it's a pipe dream, for most of them. There's been some work that way. There was one doctor -- brilliant neuro guy, Toure, he's pioneered --" Her head shakes. "He did work with implants that are still in clinical trials as far as I know but they've proven wildly successful in helping patients with certain neurodegenerative disorders. I suppose that's a first step towards the kind of thing you're talking about. It /is/ technology directly changing brain processes." "That's cool," is Dusk's opinion of the game, though his attention is diverting back to the conversation that had been going on. "Toure? I know him, he's -- he's good people. Helped some of my friends out when not a lot of doctors would. Think he's signed on to work at that new clinic." His wing lifts in a quick shrug. "We're kind of living in the future already. Science fiction isn't as far off as it used to be. I don't mean subtle changes of brain chemistry, though, I'm talking wholesale telling people. Lift your arm, pull this trigger, walk this way. Follow my orders. Do what I want. It's bound to be --" He tips his cup towards Doug, "-- hard, but it's doable? In theory?" Doug sips at his coffee as he listens, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully as he lowers the cup. "I bet that's the goal of most of those defense agencies," he says to Dusk. "Controlling people that way. And in /theory/, just about anything is doable. Otherwise science fiction wouldn't exist at all. But when it comes down to the meat of things, the meat is more complex than the machine." He wrinkles his nose. "Computers, even ones with A.I., don't have instinct or need or desire driving their thought processes and actions." He lifts a shoulder and grins. "Robo-zombie people sounds like a kick-ass premise for a movie, though." "If science fiction was all doable, it would just be science. Hypotheses to be proven or disproven. It's science fiction because we /wish/ that in theory anything were doable," Regan says over a small sip of her drink. "-- You've /met/ Dr. Toure?" She sounds impressed and more than a little envious. "And computers don't have those things driving their thought processes yet. /Some/ forms of sufficiently advanced A.I. would be -- more or less indistinguishable from other emotive processes. But. You're not talking about turning people into computers." She flicks a glance towards Dusk. "You're talking about turning people into slaves." Dusk's jaw tightens at this last comment. "Pretty much, yeah," he agrees. "I guess I am." His eyes focus down into his cup, a tired wilt drooping his large wings downward. "I don't know if it's their goal, but I think it's a nice sidequest if they can hack it." His head shakes quickly; he manages a thin brief smile after this. "Oh, yeah. He um. He actually stopped by the church in Harlem a bit back. With Micah and with the doctor who's founding that clinic. They did a lot of work patching people up who needed it." Doug remains silent as the conversation goes on, his brow furrowed at Dusk's revelation on how he knows the good doctor. There's a question in his eyes, but before he can voice it, there's a quacking noise from his laptop bag. Fishing out his phone, he reads the text there, smiling a bit before he slips it back into its pocket. "I gotta run," he says apologetically, taking a couple of large swallows of coffee and wincing at the heat in his throat. "But this has been a really interesting conversation. Maybe we can discuss it again, sometime." He offers a bright smile to Regan, and ghosts his hand along Dusk's wing. "It was nice meeting you, Regan. And I'll see you around the apartments," he says to Dusk as he slides around the other young man. "You should come and hang out this weekend." He lifts his hand as he moves towards the exit, offering a small wave as he passes through and (as evidenced through the front window) is joined by the curly-haired man from earlier before heading down the street. "It was nice to meet you as well." Regan gives Doug a quick smile, bright, and then returns her attention to Dusk. Her legs curl up beneath her, tucking comfortably into her armchair. "Why. Do you have your eye on a slave army of your own?" The smile dims as she takes a slow sip of her coffee, drawing in a deep breath and quieting to savour the taste. "Who doesn't, really?" Dusk exhales a quick breath, heavier than a laugh should be. His wing lifts, into that ghosting touch, brushing softly up against Doug's hand. "See you!" He settles further forward onto his chair, wings shifting uncomfortably behind him again, cramped against the couch cushions. "Maybe I read too much science fiction." He lifts his coffee, pressing the rim of the mug against his lips. << Or maybe I've seen them. >> Regan splutters on her mouthful of coffee, inhaling it rather than drinking it. She sets the mug back down as she coughs, eyes watering; she dabs them against the sleeve of her dress. << Seen them? Seen what, people turned into slaves? Controlled by -- what? Who? >> "Forgive me," she says aloud, once the coughing is more under control, "I definitely botched drinking that time. -- Science fiction is good. It gives us something to aim for." Her lips compress. "Or aim to avoid." << The labs. But I've never seen -- or even heard of -- anything even close outside of them. Someone's gotta be out there doing /something/, though. What we're doing -- >> Dusk's thought comes with a heavy weariness, a clench of apprehension -- what we're doing /soon/, what we're doing /now/ -- << It's not enough. We need to hit them harder but for that we need to know who they are. When they're people. If they're ever people. >> He picks up a napkin, offering it out towards Regan. "Yeeeah, you didn't roll a success there. Science fiction gives us lots of things but so many people seem way more focused on writing dystopia than futures we /want/. I don't know if that's precautionary or just fatalistic. The world doesn't really seem to be bending towards nirvana, at any rate." Regan dabs at her eyes with the napkin, now. "Comforting," she decides. "No matter how bad things are here, it could always be worse." Her next sip of coffee is slower. << You? >> The word is tighter, an undercurrent of anger rippling through it. << No. >> Though Dusk doesn't sound particularly reassuring with this, clipped and angry, too. << But friends. People I love. And there's bound to be more, when we free the next ones. >> This time, he does laugh, quick and rough. "Comforting, wow. That's, uh." He drinks down the rest of his coffee in quick swallows, wincing slightly with the heat of it. That's bleak." "We live in bleak times. Maybe I'm just realistic." Regan slips her computer away, when Dusk starts to finish his coffee. "I like to think it's hopeful, though. If people in those worse situations can conquer their problems, we certainly can too, right?" << When. >> She echoes, first statement and then question: << When? >> << Soon. This weekend? Soon. We'll have a lot of people. A lot of people needing places to go. >> Dusk starts to put his things away, too. Regan's statements get a quick grin, bright and fangy as he gets to his feet, flexing his wings as much as the cramped space will allow, but pulling them back at a glare from a customer nearby. "We can." << Then they'll have places. >> Regan's lips compress, not at the glare but at the readiness with which Dusk pulls his wings back /in/. "You should wear those with pride." She slides her bag onto her shoulder, laptop tucked away. "We can. And we will."