ArchivedLogs:Short Circuit

Short Circuit
Dramatis Personae Doug, Jax	friday 10 november 2017 oops. part of futureytp.
Location <NYC> Greenwich Village
A rather bohemian neighborhood and the East Coast birthplace of the Beat movement, Greenwich is the residential counterpart to its more punk east sibling. The Village has been a historical center for the important political movements-- landmarks such as the Stonewall Inn on Christopher street were here during the GLBT rights movement, and the Weather Underground had safehouses here during the radical anti-war movement as well. Historically a place for artists and hippies to flock, gentrification has driven up prices in the locale, causing Greenwich to now trend less bohemian and more yuppie, though the stereotype remains. Friday night and the Village is still quite lively -- indoors, at least. There's a sharp crisp bite to the air that's making people /hustle/ as they go between restaurants or bars or clubs or house parties; Uber is no doubt doing a brisk business as people try to minimize their time spent out of doors. Jax is already rubbing his hands together as he steps out of Home, giving Daiki a quick hug before they part ways. Maybe the /younger/ man has parties to get to, but Jax is totally going home. Less briskly than some -- there's a definite stiffness to his movements that implies some kind of injury, though beneath a bundling of rainbow-striped scarf and silver jacket and rainbow fingerless gloves and heavy stompy ankle boots and /furry/ thick legwarmers over black skinny jeans it's hard to really see what might be injured. He has sunglasses on his eyes despite the hour, a knit cap pulled down on his head; the fringe of hair sticking out from beneath it is /also/ rainbow-tipped, vivid and bright at the ends of shaggy black locks. He is digging a phone out of his pocket -- maybe also summoning a cab! Maybe just checking his texts. Who knows. This time of night belongs to the young, or at least those supposed to be young. Even those who have to be up super early the next day. Doug falls into both categories, which both explains and doesn't explain his presence here. Dressed in a thick blue flannel shirt under his brown beaten leather jacket, and sturdy jeans to ward off the chill, his outfit really doesn't hide the advantages of three years' of solid dock work for one's physique. He's got a small bag slung bandolier-style across chest under the jacket, a small wire running from the strap to the earbud firmly placed that's allowing him to speak to whoever's on the other end. "Yeah, I got it," he's saying as he nears Home, offering Jax a bright smile if he's looking. He pauses near the older man, furrowing his brow as he continues his call. "Yeah, I should have it finished tonight. Then we can test it." He makes a rude noise, then, and reaches up to tap the earbud lightly. "Jax," he says, his grin a bit tipped as he looks the other man over. "You coming or going?" There's another pair of footsteps heading towards Home. At a slow trudge -- it sounds heavy, stompy boots too perhaps? Just around the corner. Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp. At the far distant end of the long block there's a figure rounding the corner -- dark in the patches between streetlights, walking slow, in the comings and goings of New York at this distance pretty much entirely Not Of Note except for that it's /large/. Could be a basketball player. Who's also a bodybuilder. Dressed in a hugely baggy hoodie (who knows how it got So Big on such an abnormally large frame) and equally baggy jeans as it heads down the block towards the pair. "Oh hey." Jax isn't exactly looking -- at least he doesn't /look/ like he's looking, focused down on his phone, but he notices anyway, glancing up before Doug's pause. His smile is quick, too, a familiar easy warmth to it that tends to come kind of standard with hi. "Work? This late?" Though there's a touch of wry amusement here given that some of his jobs -- guarding, bartending -- tend to burn the midnight oil too. "Oh, I, uh, I was going but -- I think now I'm supposed to bring home --" He frowns at his phone. "-- Twenty thousand omelettes. I'm not sure they can fill that order but I think my fatherly duties require me to try. Though seriously he could've asked me half an /hour/ ago when I texted. -- How're you doing?" Doug laughs, ducking his head before looking back up with a squint. "Nah. Just a thing I'm working on with some friends. I don't do much computing for other people anymore." He reaches up to hook a thumb in the wide strap of his bag, pulling it out and letting it settle into a new spot. "I'm just grabbing a burger before meeting some of the guys from work for a beer." He laughs at Jax's announcement of his new plan, and lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Maybe they have a quantum stove in the back. Make all of them at once." His gaze wanders, then, sliding over the lumbering figure and noting it with a small, surprised lift of his eyebrows. Then he's back to Jax. "I've been good," he says. "Got a promotion at work to team leader. I get to wear a different colored hat, and shout through a bullhorn." He puffs out his chest, then, looking pleased with himself. "How about you?" Chunk, chunk, chunk. The footsteps coming closer sound -- distinctly more metallic the closer they get. Chunk, chunk! Somewhere overhead there's a humming, faint and distant -- the basketball-sized drone hovering in the distance can't entirely be made out, even if its (to Jax, very /distinct/) sound can be. Chunk, chunk! Once the person gets closer it's easier to see they're -- not, really, a person at all. Beneath the hood the face there is impassive and silver, the eyes flat and blank and expressionless. It /looks/ pretty close to the sentinels that have been assisting the EMTs and police forces -- though /those/ models are a bit smaller and quite clearly marked for their purposes. This robot, though, is heading towards Doug. Not /exactly/ purposefully. It's a robot. Its pace is pretty mechanical. "That would be mega useful for the care and feeding of sharks," Jax admits with a laugh. "Oh, cool! I'm always a fan of --" His nose crinkles up. "New colours? I don't know so much about the --" He stops, head tipping with a /puzzled/ look at the arrival of the -- hobo-sentinel? The nondescript outfit earns a high hike of his brows. "Uh -- are you -- lost?" He's addressing the robot, it seems. "To indicate my increased station," Doug explains, his voice lowering just a bit as the robot approaches. "To those observing from a distance." He furrows his brow as he becomes aware of its trajectory, and steps widely to one side. "Don't these things have some sort of GPS thingie in them?" he wonders, tipping his head as he watches it. "I hate to think of some firehouse being without its equipment." The robot shifts when Doug steps to the side, amending its course, faintly, to follow. Or track, at least. One mechanical hand stretches out, reaching for Doug. It's not a /violent/ motion, but a firm one, a clamp of cold metal hand on shoulder. "Subject identified," the robot announces, who knows to /who/. "Ah -- uh." Jax rocks forward onto his toes, biting down on his lip with a deepening frown. "They usually -- do and they usually -- have their team somewhere near..." He's scanning the street quickly, though there's no sign of accompanying medics. Or cops, for that matter. "... Hey, um, I don't think you have the right person?" He is caaautiously polite addressing the robot. "Do you know who you're looking for? Cuz we were just -- getting dinner." Doug's eyes widen when the robot tracks him, and he's too slow in taking a step back when its metallic hand lands on his shoulder. "Whoa," he says, when it speaks, and he /does/ attempt that step back, pulling against its solid grip. "What do you mean, 'subject'? Who's a subject?" With his free hand, he thumps his chest. "I'm good, dude. Hale and hearty." The attempt to pull back /does/ make that grip tighten past what normal Firm would require, starting to squeeze down -- hard. Bruisingly hard? Maybe worse. Its other hand is coming up to /beneath/ Doug's other arm, intending to lift the man bodily from the ground -- not a very difficult prospect at its strength. "Resisting apprehension," the robot informs Doug (robotically!), "will necessitate greater force. Subject will be detained for analysis." /This/ does not exactly fill Jax with a great amount of confidence. He steps forward -- hands raised, not trying to /touch/ the robot though there's a distinctly strained edge to his tone. "Is he bein' arrested? You can't arrest him without no charge. I don't -- what /analysis/ you talkin' about, this ain't. Put him down, aright? Can you explain this?" Doug hisses as the grip tightens, and his teeth clench in frustration. And maybe a touch or more of good, old-fashioned alarm. He does, however, cease to resist as suggested. As his feet begin to leave the ground, he yelps, and his eyes widen. "Detained? Analysis?" are a raspy yelp of surprise. He might have more follow-up questions, but luckily Jax is there to ask them instead, and Doug is not one to hedge his bets. Even dangling from the arms of a possibly evil robot hobo. Jax's questioning finally draws the robot's attention towards /him/, body turning -- with Doug still dangling from the dangerously tight grip -- towards the photokinetic. There's a long stretch of silence, blank eyes staring. "Subject identified," it states again -- and /drops/ Doug to just walk past him (or /through/ him, if he doesn't get out of the way fast enough) and reach for Jax instead. For the neck, rather than the shoulder. "-- Outstanding violations," it identifies, "subject will be detained for analysis." Jax's next question is choked off as suddenly there is Robot Hand around his throat. At least the scarf protects from the /cold/ -- less so from the squeezing grip. "Wh -- I -- y -- hhhhnnrghnk." It's very eloquent, as might be expected when he's gasping for air. The repeat mention of /detained for analysis/, though, makes his face go /starkly/ pale, a sickly greenish tremor of light around him. "Hey--!" Doug hits the ground with a whump, although he /does/ manage to scurry out of the way before he's trampled. When the robot reaches for Jax's neck, the blonde wrinkles his nose, and reaches into his bag. "Hey, let him /breathe/, you overblown toaster!" he yells, pulling out a collapsible baton and opening it with a flick of his wrist. "He hasn't /done/ anything!" He doesn't wait for an actual /response/ -- he's already swinging the baton with all of his weight. The hand around Jax's neck is squeezing tighter, which might make him all the more thankful for the padding between neck and hard metal fingers. The Sentinel lifts here, too, starting to pulll Jax off the ground by a hold that will do nothing to /improve/ his breathing situation. Doug's yell, though, turns its face back that way. It lowers Jax back to the ground, though it doesn't actually let go quite yet. Thunk! The baton whacks solidly against a heavy metallic chest. The Sentinel's weight shifts back before it lets go of /Jax/ to reach towards /Doug/ again. "-- Subject will be detained --" It has closed a hand around the baton, puzzled. Its other arm that had been holding Jax is slowly shifting, restructuring itself to mirror the baton. Its new baton-arm promptly -- thunks /itself/ in the chest, just where Doug had hit. Somewhere far overhead, one quietly watching drone would be shaking its head sadly, if it had a head. Coughcough/cough/. Jax is a little sputtery, a /lot/ eye-watery, hands coming up reflexively to his throat as he stumbles back away from the robot. "-- Chh--wh --" /He's/ shaking his head, more bemused than sad. Still /spluttery/, though. Around the robot a faint shimmer of glow encapsulates it in its own small bubble. "... what. How. Often do these things get. /Tune/. Ups." He finally manages, hoarse and wheezey. Doug /stares/ at the robot for a moment as it shifts its arm and thunks itself. Slowly, he moves around to stand next to Jax, offering a hand to support the older man's elbow, if he needs it. "I...really don't know," he answers, watching both Jax and the robot with equal (if different) concern. "I sure didn't think they could T-1000 themselves, though." He wrinkles his nose, reaching up to fish his phone from the pocket on his bag strap. "And shit like that's /never/ good." He jabs a thumb at the phone screen. "What's the number for Oscorp customer service?" The baton thunks out against the shield. Whunk. Then just drops its now-baton-like hand, still and silent as it powers down. Jax is still rubbing at his throat, leaning slightly into Doug's supportive touch. His smile is crooked and a little bit wry as the robot goes silent; his shield fades soon after. "Yeah, cuz I got /that/ number on my speed dial." He's maybe trying to manage a laugh with this but it's still just wheezey. "This one ain't even dressed like s'workin'. I didn't even think they /had/ -- I mean they don't /dress/ the others they jus'. Got their postings right on --" He taps his chest like where an identifying /badge/ might go. On a robot. "An' it's bigger -- we get the medbots all the time down by the clinic an' they ain't --" Froooown. He bites down on his lip, slowly lifting a hand to stay Doug's. "-- I mean you know about computer stuff, right? What if maybe y'just. Took a look yourself. How many people got a chance t'actually see what they -- y'know. Tick like." Doug's own laugh is a short, hollow sound, and he pockets his phone with a snort. "They'd just put me on hold, anyway, and try to sell me a better model." Such as the one in front of them. When the shield drops, he moves a bit closer, already digging in his bag for a pair of glasses and studying the automaton's head and neck. "The clothing /is/ a bit weird," he says. "And that whole baton thing...it kind of reminded me for a minute of The Iron Giant. Y'know, except for the strangling you part." He nods at the suggestion, moving around to the creature's back and making a happy noise. "There you are." Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a tablet and a cable. One end is plugged into the tablet; the other inserted into a port on the sentinel's back. "'Sgonna take me a couple of minutes to get around the firewalls," he says, skimming his fingers over the screen. Suddenly he leans over to peer around the giant. "If I can make him not-deadly, can I keep him?" The robot just stands there. Sleeps there? Zzz. Very docile for Doug's explorations. Jax's nose crinkles. He leans back against a nearby lamppost, rubbing his hands together again to ward off the chill. "S'long as he's housebroke. I can think of a /few/ folks would like to see what's on these guys' minds. Might want t'get it inside sooner'n later, though. 'ventually someone's gonna notice." Doug beams. "Oh, cool. I've always wanted a robot. Now maybe Warlock can have a body." He grins, and lifts his eyebrows. "Maybe I should charge to learn its secrets," he says, his voice excited as he considers the possibilities. "Like a nerd sideshow. 'Mysteries of the Mark...whatever number this one is.'" Jax's warning gets another nod, and a quick look up and down the street. "Maybe I can hijack its motor functions, and get it walking," he says. "'Cause I don't think it's going to fit in a cab." There's more frantic skimming of the tablet screen, and a few muttered curses, but in a couple minutes, the robot begins to move eeeeeeeever so slowly. Still, it's progress. And thus the hopeful analyst heads off to be thoroughly analyzed. (The reader will be spared a pun about robots and iron-y.)