ArchivedLogs:Good Guys
| Good Guys | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2017-06-07 "So what we some kinda ambassador now? I'mm'a ambass so fucking hard." |
| Location
<BOM> Council Room - Main Lodge - Ascension Island | |
Perhaps surprisingly, this place doesn't look half as sinister as its name suggests; it's a large room with a single long steel table -- at which over two dozen seats are arranged, with one seat at each of the table's ends. There's a high-end projector on the ceiling, designed to produce light in any direction -- or all directions -- at once, allowing any surface in the room to be highlighted for the purpose of presentations. There's also stainless steel pitchers placed intermittently along the table, kept filled with brisk, cool ice-water. Some enterprising nerd has folded several pieces of paper into name plaques and written on them in Sharpie. This leaves a seat reserved for 'GORILLA GRODD', 'SINESTRO', 'POISON IVY', and 'BRAINIAC'. But not 'LEX LUTHOR'. Because that punk? Is just a fucking /human/. The chair at one end of the table is never taken; /that/ one's reserved for Magneto. The smell of coffee fills the council room, just at the moment, freshly brewed and waiting for those who might need it. Regan has helped herself to a large mug. She's sitting just to the right hand of the head of the table, long hair pulled up into a neat bun and reading glasses low on her nose. There's a laptop open nearby her, though she's not paying it much mind, attention focused out on the assembled Brothers. "-- into widespread use across the city as of today," she's been saying. "But because of the hard work of a few of our Brothers, we've known about this for some time now and had a while to prepare." Across the table from Regan, B is restless. Half in her chair, half out of it, knee perched on its seat and her claws clicking against the table. Hir gills are fluttering briefly, rapidly; ze waits for Regan to finish speaking before clearing hir throat nervously. "Right, um, prepare. Like Regan said um. Ion and Isra and Scramble -- helped get us -- well we've been working for a while now on. On making sure this rollout is -- or isn't --" Hir cheeks flush darker; she takes a deep breath, begins again: "What I mean to say is, we got a hold of the schematics long ahead of time and we've been working since then to tweak the bots." Less fidget, less nerves: Dusk is draped backwards in his chair, fingers closed loosely around a thermos and a fangy half-smile on his lips as the others talk. "In very brief, we've rearranged their prioritization so that they don't actually prioritize anyone on their stops. Instead of stepping in when they have some freaks to neuter, they're just going to step in -- all the time." Ion has arrived with SNACKS in tow, a box of pastries, a plate of some sort of pasties all filled with spiced beef -- he's been munching on the latter, wiping a crumb from the flaky wrapper off of his lips. "What you mean like they be shooting up all the humans now?" Beside Dusk, Natalie's brows raise smoothly. "If you had a way into them couldn't you just have disabled --" Though she pauses when Ion speaks, tipping her head down and huffing a small laugh into her own coffee. "... Oh. Elegant." Isra is perched elegantly in the chair beside B, legs folded beneath her so that she looms quite tall, even sitting down. Her skin is night-black, accented with sweeps of fine, shimmering iridescence and crowded with stars on the membranes of her wings. She's steadily working through an enormous mug of coffee, her eyes following each speaker with very little blinking. "Hmm. I imagine they will not last too long on the streets. Or in the hearts of innocent, hardworking, law-abiding humans." Scramble is standing, leaning down so that her angular frame looks all the lankier, one arm draped on Natalie's shoulder. "Gimme," she demands, stretching a hand out for Ion's pastry box. "Sucks to be the flatscans." She frowns. "Or...well, us, too." "The fleet they're releasing is large. I predict a high degree of chaos citywide in the following days." Regan's voice is level. She nods toward B and Dusk. "These two have been working tirelessly to make this happen, but I'll need assistance from all of you in order to capitalize properly on this opportunity. For the time being, we're going to increase our patrols. I want everyone who will be on the streets to step in and protect people who are being targeted with force by the robots -- regardless of who they are." /This/ draws a grimace from B. Another rapid ripple of gills. "But they'll mostly be attacking flatscans." Isra's ears press back against her skull at Regan's clarification, though her expression does not otherwise change. "Hearts and minds? I do not think our aid will inspire humanity to see the error of their ways. Would it not make a greater impact if we let them suffer a little of what we have?" The does not sound like a rhetorical question. The slight forward lean of her body and the intensity of her gaze are deadly serious. Ion lifts up the pastry box, handing it over to Scramble with a small frown. "So what we some kinda ambassador now? I'mm'a ambass so fucking hard." Splutter-cough, Natalie's half-choked on her next swallow of coffee. Shooting a sidelong glance to Ion: "Boy do I not doubt /that/." She sets her mug down, leaning back in her chair. "/How/ big a fleet are we talking about in circulation? I have a feeling even if /all/ of us were out there around the clock, the humans would still be more than getting -- a taste. We won't make a dent in the average number of stops the cops make a day, will we?" Scramble snags a religieuse from the box in Ion's hand and takes a big bite out of it. Chews meditatively. Swallows. "Yeah I doubt there'll be any shortage of hardship regardless. If there's one thing the NYPD's actually good at, it's making people's lives difficult. Still." She tilts her head, gestures vaguely with her pastry. "You want us putting down our lives and our siblings lives on the line for some poor oppressed flatscans? Cops /themselves/ won't hesitate to shoot us with actual real /more lethal/ bullets." "They're going out hard through every borough. We're definitely not going to be there in even a fraction of stops." One of Dusk's wings hitches up in a small shrug. "Not gonna pretend I'm not a /little/ sad we can't shout this one out loud though we did some pretty amazing work -- not to brag or anything. -- Wait," suddenly his brows are furrowing too. "I mean I'm sure this will make for some good photo ops and all but. We don't have to protect the /cops/ themselves when the Sentinels turn on them, do we?" B just makes a loud sucking noise, tongue against teeth. "Oh /shit/ son." Ion's eyes light. Half out of /his/ seat, now, he's bouncing eagerly to his feet. "They gonna start some kinda fucking meatcop on tincan cop /war/? I'm bringing goddamn /popcorn/ on my patrols." "I acknowledge it is a lot to ask of you all. And no," Regan gives a very small shake of her head. "I don't want you putting your lives on the line for the humans. I'm asking you to put them on the line for the good of us all, in the long term. I doubt you'll find all that much gratitude on the streets. But the press will have a field day with the chaos and though they might not be any more positively /disposed/ toward us, I suspect legislators across the country will take into account the /embarrassment/ the NYPD faced here when deciding whether or not to put in orders with Oscorp in the future." Her lips press together momentarily. "And no. You certainly needn't step in in the event the bots turn on their handlers." "It seems as though a botched field test that infuriates droves of humans would supply more than enough embarrassment for the NYPD, the DHS, and Simon." Isra inclines her head, her tail swishing slow and regular behind the chair. "However, if you believe our heroic interventions will make a difference, then very well." Dusk lifts his thermos, takes a long swig. Now his bright-sharp grin is streaked with red. "Does this make us the good guys now?" Ion's eyes widen. Hopping out of his seat /properly/, he leans over to give Dusk a (zappy) CLAP on the shoulder. "Hermano, where the fuck you been? We /always/ the good guys." | |
