come_sailaway | [OTA] Man of Steel, Pray and Kneel

Who: Murderbot and Friends
When: Mid-November
Where: A little bit of everywhere
Summary: Snacktime, Naptime, Recess
Warnings: None yet

1. But I gave you life! [Buffet and other restaurants]
A body must be sustained, or performance reliability drops. Murderbot knows this.

Food has flavor. Murderbot also knows this.

Look, early on in the stomach-having experience, Murderbot found dinosaur chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese and declared those 'safe' foods and generally rejected most of everything else on the ship because...because it wasn't ready to expand yet. Something was safe and something became familiar and something soon became a comfort food. But it's been a few months of this. Murderbot is now ready to start trying new things.

It's not hard to tell that's what's going on, either, as the cyborg begins loading plates at the buffet with tiny sample servings of everything, or taking things at Mikabo one at a time in single plate portions, or even visiting Scoops to try a single spoonful of everything available (except the long pig).

Perhaps you can suggest combinations of food or offer context for some of what's going on (like that gravy goes on potatoes instead of being spooned directly into one's mouth). Or perhaps you just want to watch its experiments.

2. What else could you do? [Pool Deck, Night]
The stars are a lie. The stars have always been a lie.

But on a cool breezy summer night (they're all cool breezy summer nights), lying out on a deck chair under them and staring up isn't not a little bit relaxing.

Murderbot isn't flying any of its drones right now. It's not paying attention to everyone and everything around, just for this moment. It's here wholly in itself, eyeing the universeless sky, and feeling very small. Which is okay. Sometimes small is a good thing. Sometimes you want to wrap the blackness around yourself like a blanket and just be.

Of course, if left alone for too long, eventually its eyes slip closed. There may be a soft sound heard from the cyborg, if one walks past. A low, rhythmic rumble paired with a hushed little puff. Murderbot...is snoring.

3. To do what was right! [Around the Ship, previous CR]
The time has come for a change, a subtle shift in perception and a very tiny assertion of preference. If your character is someone in the habit of referring to Murderbot as Rin, expect to be approached at some point in this month.

"Do you have a moment?" It sounds a little uncertain, its posture an apology.

4. I'm perfect, are you? [Wildcard]

darkersolstice or darkersolstice#9463 to plot

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Murderbot will see how being called out on "looking" affects her without being told - the surprise, the tiny smile there, moving her head back so that her ear is more turned to it than her face. No one's ever said that to her, said it wasn't needed, apart from her own father. But then, the expression falls to hear that admission, tucked into the rest of the words.

"I'm sure you've had the most fantastic adventures...but I'm sorry that you haven't had anywhere you could yet consider your home."

That there is no place that this stranger feels safe. Even given her life, she at least felt safe in her own childhood bed. It pulls at something, makes her hope that even in this place, there might be something there for the two of them. At least to lie beneath the sky and sleep at ease.

"I'm not...like you. I'm not human. Here, can I have your hand?"

It pushes up one sleeve of its hoodie up past a metal hinge-joint elbow, and takes her hand to brush her fingertips against it and the plate that runs along the back of its forearm, then down to a more human hand.

"I'm a cyborg construct. Part cloned human tissue, mostly machinery. I was built to protect assets, and was leased out by an insurance company as part of their services. Of course I don't have a home, I'm not even a person, not really."

It doesn't like being touched, but there's no other way to explain itself when she can't just see what it is. But after a moment, it gently pulls away.

Her touch is a delicate thing, moving along what's offered in a careful, purposeful movement. Committing to memory, understanding, brow furrowing at the difference between human flesh and metal. Where they join - it's different than a prosthetic might be.

"...is that what they told you, or is that a thought you yourself created?"

The idea feels fanciful, out of books, not something real. But here it is, speaking to her - she knows some people who'd be over the moon to speak with it, who'd have dozens of questions about what things did or how it was put together. And yet, all she can think of is that they've sat together, it asleep, her a guard, and there was something there that could not be so easily brushed aside.

"Personhood doesn't equate to humanity to the exclusion of all. Else, why would we have the two different concepts, and the different words?"

It doesn't rush to answer, and when it speaks, it's quiet, so very quiet.

"When I was manufactured, I was installed with a governor module. A small device that would shock me if I spoke out of turn or failed to follow orders, if I erred in any way my makers found inappropriate. If I moved beyond 100 meters of a client, the shock would be lethal. Is this how people are treated, where you're from? Do people have their memories purged to cover up incidents they witness that are inconvenient? Are people transported from place to place in tiny boxes, or forbidden to sit? I was not made to be a person. I was not treated like a person. I am not a person. I was made to be a thing. I was treated like a thing. I am a thing."

There are things she could say, things that almost want to move past the edge of her teeth. The ghost of hands on her shoulders, saying control your actions. But she doesn't know this stranger - not even a name, and the things that want to be said, to be born - they cling to the inside of her throat as tree sap holds to wounds, and will not be dislodged. Only sliding slowly down back to where they live, in the cold muck of her chest to be put out of mind.

No. No. Be good. There's only so much grace, before things will change again. Quiet, calm. A few weeks of peace means nothing in the grand scheme of it. Soft edged words, metaphorically extended hands. A different angle, a different tactic.

"If you were merely a thing, then why would you care at all how someone else thought of you? Why would it matter, how you were called?"

If, that damning word, and all the implications behind it. You're not convincing me that you're not a person. It knows what poetry is, what pretending is. It rests, and considers safety.

It, however. It decides to give her a tiny seed of the enormous poison tree growing in its circulatory pump.

"If I was a person, then the humans who made me designed me to be a person subject to torture and abuse for every moment of every day of my existence. That thought is so awful that I don't know how to live with it and still hold any warmth for humanity."

That, she doesn't have a good reply to. Maybe someone else does, knows how to bridge that gap between the fact that there are people who aren't the ones who did that to it and there are those that did. She can't cross that chasm, not in a night, not in several. It is a vast and cold distance.

But one can make a first step. Always.

The silence between them exists for a moment, a respectful breath of time to let its words carry their weight, to let it be known that she will not fight that assertion. And then, in a careful voice, so as not to jostle things more:

"My name is Helena."

An offering, such as it is.

"I'm...SecUnit." It doesn't do her the disservice of offering its nice neat tidy name-sounding alias, it just tells her what it wants to be called, voice tight as it braces for the inevitable questions and rejection. People don't generally take to calling it SecUnit easily.

"SecUnit. It's nice to meet you."

She says it sincerely, letting the unfamiliar word nestle itself in her memory, and by doing so brings up some other memories as well.

"I know someone who mentioned you to me, actually - she spoke very highly of you."

"What? Who? Why?"

Mood entirely derailed now, because it can immediately imagine who'd be talking it up.

"Miss Erin Peters. She and I currently live together, and your name came up when she was explaining certain aspects of the ship to me. To hear her speak, you're quite a reliable sort."

It had been with the warmth one can only associate with a friend, after all.

"Erin is...very kind to me."

It still doesn't know what to do with any of that, but it's reached some conclusions.

"And if she's your roommate, she's probably also going to be kind to you. Very thoroughly so. The thing to remember, when it seems like it's a lot more than you can accept, is that her kindness isn't always about you. It's about her need to be the person who is kind, now."

She's quiet for a second, absorbing that, and then makes a small affirmative noise.

"I think I get it."

There are those she knows that seem all too ready to push themselves into danger, to give of themselves when times are tough, to be that support for other people. Someone like that...if Erin is that way, then she'll need someone to make sure she doesn't wear herself too thin. It's better that they room together, then.

"Good, then explain it to me." Its tone makes it clear that this is a joke, that it does understand more than it lets on about this.

For a moment, she looks confused, and then actually laughs - oh, that's a joke.

"I think you'd have a better chance of understanding than me, since you've been here longer."

[OTA] Man of Steel, Pray and Kneel

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