thebastion | Day 217 (Open)

Perhaps because he’s had words for everyone for quite a while now, it’s just difficult to portray his point without communication or any discernable facial cues. Still, the comment brings a snort of laughter, along with a somewhat rude hand gesture; at least the intent is amicable.

It helps mask some of his trepidation as well. The moment his HUD pops up an alert, he’s gritting his teeth, breathing deep to quell the sudden rush of nerves.

There isn’t a sense of intrusion like he’s expecting; there’s no new presence in his mind, no computer program burning pathways through his brain, but there’s a hint of something, a ghost of a feeling that pales in comparison to what he’s been through in the past. Psychosomatic, more than likely, but it’s almost comforting, in a way. After existing for so many years as a horrible conglomeration of flesh and AI, and the abrupt silence after their destruction, there’s something familiar about the idea of being melded to his tech in such a way again.

A heavy twitch runs through his body, fingers clenching and unclenching as seconds, minutes, tick by. Notifications flash along his HUD, sparks crackle from the power unit cobbled to his back, and there’s a low hiss of static from the speaker by his shoulder that manages to coalesce into a single, semi-intelligible word.

“motherfucker.”

"You weren't kidding, were you?" Colin says, looking all the more amused as the program integrates with the suit and reaches deep within the Meta's mind for words. "At least we know it works. Now... it's not going to be perfect for a while yet. This is alien programming for you and your suit, so it might glitch out every now that then. Now that we've established that it works, though, let's put it through it's paces. Let's have a full sentence, shall we?"

The static hiss tells several things. Unfortunately, it's all conflicting information at the moment. He needs to see the program in action, see how the program is interacting with the Meta's suit, before he's confident enough to call this a success.

The low rumble in his throat is habit, a cursory warning to give him a moment to adjust. He’s waiting for the headaches, the ghost of something reaching a little too deep, but nothing ever comes.

“Used to experimental alien tech.” Well, it’s as complete a sentence as they usually get for him; even before his injury, he wasn’t much for talking. The lack of filter, however, is definitely something new, “half of this shit glitches out anyways.”

The noise stops for a moment, replaced instead by a more concerned rasping from himself, as opposed to the speakers. At least when there’d been an AI to speak for him, the program had been intelligent, and courteous, enough to pick out his intent, as opposed to relaying his words literally.

“How sentient is this thing?” The question comes unbidden, the words catching and crackling from the speaker.

"Non-sentient," Colin says, shaking his head. "It's just a language program, there's no artificial or synthetic guide to the program."

A pause, and he continues. "You're used to AI in there, huh?" he asks. "That would explain several of the gaps I was seeing in your armor's system."

For him, this is basic conversation. He doesn't even know that Meta's having trouble filtering yet. This is one of the disadvantages to being Colin, social cues have a habit of falling by the wayside.

"I can probably see about fixing up some of those glitches a little later, if and when you decide to trust me with working on the armor itself," Colin says, raising a calming hand as if he knows what's coming. "I know that day is not today, and may not be for several months or years. It's just an offer."

"Eight," comes the immediate reply, followed by a far less eloquent, "fuck.

Another hiss of displeasure, the sound decidedly annoyed, but it's directed at himself. It's going to take some time before he's used to this new method of communication. After years of being able to say whatever he wanted without any fear or repercussion, dude to the words being unintelligible, it's a strange, and somewhat frustrating, new concept to have to watch himself.

His head immediately shoots up, and he stares hard at Colin, shoulders tense again at the offer. The knee-jerk reaction is to snarl, to reach for his weapon, because he's not good at playing nice, even when he should be grateful for the assistance he's already received.

It's difficult to weigh his options though; there's been very little else in the Bastion that has been accessible to him, and there's a chance...He huffs, eyes narrowed behind his visor. "Power unit is busted. Haven't been able to charge it since before here."

It's the least damaged part, but it's the only thing that he trusts anyone to touch right now.

Inwardly, Colin is torn between being amused and surprised. He can't think of any situation short of a refugee crisis where a single suit of powered armor would require eight separate AI to regulate things. But there's bound to be a reason, and he's not discounting the possibility of negative reasons either. Still, he's not here to pass judgment on anyone.

"Like I said, it's just an offer for the future," Colin says, smiling reassuringly even in the face of Meta's tense reaction. "How did the unit sustain its damage? I can see the issues, but I'll need a bit more to go on before I can really patch things up."

He does NOT relish the thought of telling the Meta that such repairs will likely need the armor to come off to be safe... Of course, he can PROBABLY do it with the armor on, but that undertaking will be explored later.

“Unregulated use,” comes the curt response, the words undercut with a low, dry, growl. It’s a bit odd, to be speaking and not speaking at the same time, but he’s adjusting the longer time passes.

“Can’t function without AI regulation. Also was at the epicenter of an EMP. Patched up, but no AI to watch the levels. Was attempting to fix that before,” he makes a vague motion about them, “all of this.”

It’s far more chatty than he’d normally be, but it’s nice to actually communicate for once. Having to rely on hand motions and writing in the dirt has been quite cumbersome.

"Hmmm, I see," Colin says, his expression contemplative. "Yeah, I guess I'm not surprised about that. Whoever designed your armor didn't seem to have figured out ECCM. Oh well, maybe science went another route from that..."

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, I can't supply with you an AI," he says. "The facilities here are way too primitive to growpram one. I... might be able to rig up an SI, though. It would be quite a bit more limited in what it could do, but it could definitely regulate your armor's systems for you. Unfortunately, it's not really an easy thing, it would take me quite a bit of time to put together."

He certainly isn't lying about the AI impossibility, though even if he could do that, he likely wouldn't. Colin's got a weird set of priorities when it comes to AI...

Technical talk is, unfortunately, far over his head. He's attended regulation classes on equipment maintenance, he can field rig a capture unit with no tools, and he's more than acquainted with the use of artificial intelligent fragment infrastructures and the neural implants that everyone involved with Freelancer had, but anything that's beyond what can be learned in the military is absolute gibberish to him.

"Don't need new AI copy. Need the one that got away." That's the fact of the matter; while armor regulation and power are one thing, there's another thing to be said for the plethora of unaddressed obsessions left behind by a dead, power-mad AI fragment.

There's a wave of his hand and a shake of his head, "can survive the fluxes, just need a way to recharge. Maybe stop it from shocking me when it malfunctions."

Ironically, he actually feels a bit poor about someone going out of their way to do anything for him.

Edited 2014-08-13 00:53 (UTC)

Colin listens to him, continuing to study him as he talks. With the language program working as it does, there's no way that was a slip of the tongue. Close integration, maybe? Or something else? Whatever the case, it's a moot point at the moment.

"Recharging is something I can probably fix up, but it's not something I can do easily while you're wearing the armor. The shocks, especially, are on the interior of the armor," he says gently. Yeah, this is going to get a great response... "I won't ask you to take it off, yet. I know it's important to you. But just so you know, the armor seems as though it's in pretty serious need of maintenance. You'll need someone to give it a full inspection sooner, as opposed to later. But it's your call when you do it."

He is, if nothing, predictable: fingers clench, posture stiffens, and the low noise that rumbles deep from his chest is decidedly less than friendly. It’s all things he doesn’t want to hear; he knows that he has to find a long-term solution for his problems, and that that solution will probably involve having to rely on outside sources, but that doesn’t mean that he’s keen on the idea at all.

These are the type of decisions that he hates, because there’s no good decision to be made. He could soldier on, keep pushing everything and hope for the best, and perhaps end up in an unfortunate situation down the road, or he could relent and attempt to convince himself that someone isn’t going to spring the moment he lets his guard down.

The noise he’s making escalates to a full-throated snarl as he thinks and thinks and hates himself and hates being stuck in a position where he has to make a decision at some point. Violence is absent, however, because while he’s frustrated, there’s no source for his ire besides his himself.

“Break it, I break you.” There’s a shrug of his shoulder, a vague motion to the unit. The sentiment is quite clear, but it’s at least consent.

"The day I break anything I'm repairing is the day I go back to basic training," Colin says smugly. "On the plus side... if you need to blow off steam when we're done, I got those dummy rounds made for you to test. And then I made three HE rounds that you can take out to the skyway and blow up whatever you want."

That smugness stays with him as he moves around Meta to inspect the power unit.

"There's an alternative, of course," Colin says. "I'll still need to do this work, but... If you want to learn how to do it yourself, I can teach you while I'm doing it. You'll never have to rely on anyone else again when we're done, barring serious injury in a crisis."

Another momentary pause. "Or, you know, two man jobs," he adds. "Powered armor is never easy work and even the best of engineer needs assistance every now and then."

It’s like bribing a petulant child, and Meta knows that he should perhaps be insulted, but the offer is too tempting, and thus effective, to pass up. While blowing up things on a very thin layer of soil that is seemingly suspended in midair above a churning void is probably not the best thing to be doing, the (very real) consequences seem absolutely infinitesimal when weighed against the reality of getting to absolutely decimate things outside.

Truly, maturity and forethought are not his strong suits.

That does, however, require getting through the disconcerting part first. Both offers are interesting, and he has to weigh them against each other; back in his own universe, there had been technicians to handle things, and later he had just ignored any signs of malfunctioning.

“Can watch.” A small huff under his breath. “Won’t be good enough to fix on my own though.”

With that, it was time for the worst part. He turns his back to Colin, shrugging off the brute shot and letting it rest on the floor with very little care. Hands go to his helmet, but there is hesitation. Eventually he forces himself to disconnect it from the power source, thumbing along the seals until he is able to tug it off. The world was far too garish and bright without the amber filter of his visor.

The torso is next, disconnected from the input port, severing his newly acquired communication ability and any control over his equipment. It’s highly uncomfortable, to feel so exposed, but he soldiers through. It usually took two other sets of hands to remove the larger pieces, but with a little hard work and far more frustrated snarling, the entire shell is unceremoniously dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

As he turns back, his eyes are narrowed and his mouth is set is a tight line. One hand motions, an 'alright get on with it’ sort of gesture.

Edited 2014-08-14 15:13 (UTC)

"Don't sell yourself short," Colin says, grinning as the Meta speaks. "You may overlook a talent you never realized you had. Again, though. It's your call."

And that's all he'll say on the subject. He doesn't believe in forcing people to hear him out, there are far better uses for his time. Besides, there's work to be done. Exciting, ADVANCED work. Something that even he needs to think about.

When the Meta begins to doff his armor, Colin is right there to take it, and he doesn't take it far. The work bench is right nearby after all. With the armor on the table, Colin beckons the Meta over to watch, and he immediately sets to work. As he works, he begins to explain exactly what it is he's doing, from basic terms quickly moving to advanced techniques. If the Meta can follow his explanations, he might actually learn something.

Whatever the case, Colin's skills are readily evident as he works. His hands dance over the armor and his tools without his needing to look up. His multi-tool shifts between advanced devices with nary a pause as he works. Bleeds are patched, gaps are bridged, and connections are secured with instinctual ease.

Only occasionally do his hands pause, usually just so he can take a step back and scan the armor, or to grab a part that he'll need from the storeroom, or to grab a drink from another table. The entire process is not fast, it will likely take a couple of hours, but if he's not interrupted, Colin will keep to the task until it's done.

And it will take a lot less time than nearly any soldier would expect this kind of work to require.

Not once does he break eye contact with his chest piece, because even with all the reassurances in the world, he's still suspicious by nature. Even though he can't deny that this is for the best, it's still uncomfortable, and not a process he's keen on repeating.

Having explanations, however, does wonders, and while it is quite obvious that he isn't quite getting everything, it's enough that he can understand the basics. The work is incredibly detailed, and he does his best to keep up. This is nothing like the field work that he's used to; his talents lend themselves more to vehicles and basic capture/containment infrastructure, not troubleshooting on such a complicated scale.

It is, however, incredible how quickly things progress. While it's still far longer than he's comfortable with, Colin certainly could give the techs he knew back home one hell of a run for their money. The other man is quick, far more so than anyone that the Meta's worked with before, and that's beginning to earn him begrudging respect. Or at least as much respect as he's capable of giving.

When Meta had arrived, it had been mid-morning. By the time Colin's work was done, it was mid-afternoon. Somewhere in that time, Colin had shed his shirt and thrown it haphazardly across the room. Maintenance is sweaty, dirty work after all. But to Colin, it was satisfaction embodied. The Meta's armor had been a project close to his own tech level, and he hoped that the Meta would come back to him in the future for more.

Still, hopes and longing should not stand in the way of a job well done. Finally, Colin hangs his tools back on the wall, and he smirks at the Meta proudly.

"And with that last test, we confirm that the bleeds are patched, and that your suit should once again be able to take a charge from any of the outlets in the Bastion." Colin says. "To say nothing of not shocking you like monkey in a lab. It's all good for you to suit back up now. I'd offer to help, but something tells me you'd just find new and creative ways to tell me to fuck off."

So, with that, Colin steps back from the table and gestures to the armor. He's done with his work, and he won't dare to touch the Meta's gear any further. He hasn't missed how possessive the soldier has been...

"You really should see SOMEONE about maintenance a little more frequently, but that's your call," he adds. "I won't try to force you into anything you don't want to do."

Finally, finally his waiting is over, and it’s with an almost palatable sense of relief that he exhales. True to his word, Colin had explained the entire process, and there seemed to be no foul play involved, at least as far as the Meta could detect. Not that such was a strong suit of his, but nothing had been destroyed, and no one had attempted to put a bullet in his skull, so he was willing to call everything a success.

There’s a guttural noise of amusement, though it distinctly doesn’t show in his expression as he moves to reequip himself. It’s a bit of a task yet again, but once the neural link is reestablished, the hardest part is over with, allowing him to finally slip his helmet back on. Amber blots out the harsh colours of the workshop once again, and only then does he finally relax. A quick rundown on the functional levels of all of his equipment proves that nothing had gone wrong, and levels seemed to be more stable then they’d been for a long time. It’s only then that he really starts to pay attention.

“Someone, meaning you, by that tone.” It’s still incredibly odd to hear himself talk, or rather, to at least hear his thoughts put into words. It isn’t his voice, but that wasn’t offputting after years of letting a different computer speak for him. “Might be worth it. Piece of shit breaks down all the time.”

"We've got other engineers here," Colin says, smirking. "But they don't hold a candle to me. Let me go grab you the ammo real quick, I put it in a lockbox over here..."

Colin did love to talk, which had made the whole explanation easier for him than for most. He makes his way across the workshop, snatching up his shirt as he passes it, and he disappears into the store room. He re-emerges a few moments later carrying a mid-sized crate, which he brings over to the Meta and sets down in front of him.

"Seriously though, you do whatever makes you comfortable here. Survival's the name of the game, and if you don't want me touching your stuff any more than necessary, I've got better things to do than argue the point," he says, just a little smugly. "Anyway, your ammo."

He opens the crate, revealing two large gray shells, and a belt with three darker shells.

"Gray's the dummy rounds. Fire those first, just to make sure they work. If they clear the chamber and land a good distance away, you're good. If they DON'T clear the chamber, they won't explode, but you'll probably want me to clear it rather than you so we don't do any damage to your beauty of a weapon. As for the real deal... Three second timer fuse, one-skip ricochet impact fuse. And it should give you a satisfying badaboom."

He steps back from the crate and smiles at the Meta, indicating that the ammo is his to take.

"Humble." The word is punctuated by amused chuffing, however, because such hubris is actually fairly impressive. In all his years, the Meta has found that it's better to be damn proud of one's work than to try to downplay any personal achievements; if you're good, you're good. No point in trying to say any otherwise.

His things are important though, terribly so, and the space is appreciated. The Bastion itself is strange enough to try to comprehend, he's not even sure where to begin with the idea of people fixing things and assisting on their own volition. It's too foreign of an idea for him to wrap his head around; human beings (or whatever else was here, that he couldn't pick up bioscans on) were supposed selfish, it wasn't natural to be so accommodating. All of the help that he'd had back in his own universe, at least in the past few years, had been gained through extreme intimidation, after all.

Ammo is a much better use of his focus though, and for a moment his fingers twitch into the 'smile' hand signal in front of his visor. Everything about the destructive power has his rapt attention, and oh does it hit deep into that part of him that's been craving excitement.

Fingers close around the test rounds, and it's easy enough to get them loaded after he strips out the paltry remainder of his own ammunition. The live belt is tucked over his shoulder, all concern for any sort of safety procedures obviously at a minimum.

"You want it shot off a long ways from here, I'm assuming."

Colin laughs right along with Meta at the observation, and he grins. "I don't think the word's in my vocabulary," he says. "It gets me in trouble around the civvies. Happens all the time."

He can appreciate a good joke, a good observation. The Meta may be a little rough around the edges, but Colin gets the feeling that he's just not had a crew that recognizes his strengths, his proper interactions. Sadly, Colin's fairly sure that neither of them will find that here in the Bastion.

With the Meta's handling of the shells, Colin grins and nods. "I think only Paar can appreciate the testing of weaponry so close to the living space. And sadly, our target range isn't built for heavy weapons. Just small arms. And that..."

Colin gestures to the Brute Shot. "Is as heavy a weapon as a soul can carry. The kill range on those shells is roughly ten meters. Shock range is ninety meters, give or take five. Don't drop them at your feet, in other words."

“Civvies don’t appreciate a lot,” It’s actually quite refreshing to hear someone use familiar terminology, and it prompts more amused noises. “Fuck ‘em if they don’t give credit where credit’s due.”

The old rounds are stored away, fitting neatly into a groove in the armor plating of his thigh; not the best, nor the safest way to carry live ammunition, but belts and packs only get in the way. Extra weight and extra frivolries were definitely a hazard when one was used to barreling through the front lines.

“Took those grenades on the chin a couple of times.” Not on purpose, of course, but these things had a way of happening. Being told of the destructive potential of the new rounds, however, only sparks his curiosity; he’s always prided himself on his ability to survive the worst of the worst, and though it’s obviously a bad idea, there’s still the temptation to see how bad it could possibly be. Could his shields hold up? Perhaps that was something for a future test.

A simple shake of his head is all he offers though, taking a bit more care to strap the Brute Shot to his back. After a cursory thought, he relents and takes the more volatle rounds in hand, if only to prevent any sort of accident during their transport. While he himself was eager to find out the actual potential for destruction, it probably wasn’t a smart idea to accidentally lay waste to the rest of his surroundings. “Won’t bomb the settlement. Nowhere else to get food; not invested in trying to find some other stockpile.”

His head jerked in the direction of the door, “you observing, or going to just rely on what I tell you later on?

"Eh, so long as they don't get in the way of my work, I don't really worry about 'em," Colin says, shaking his head. "Most of 'em won't ever reach a point in their lives where understanding me is vital to their survival, so they don't try. It's not my problem, or duty to make sure they do. There's a reason my sisters call me a walking diplomatic incident."

He follows Meta's gaze and movements, taking note of them, trying to gauge what he might be thinking. The note about the grenades to the chin makes him smirk slightly, and he nods in appreciation of the latter observation. "You're built to last. That armor's definitely got some impressive qualities to it too, interesting application of a couple of systems, all kinds of nerdy stuff you probably don't wanna hear me ramble about," he says. "If you wanna set up any tests on what it can handle, I can probably whip something together later."

He follows the Meta's gesture, and he pauses, as if considering it. It might be helpful to know what they did in action, but he's already got a pretty good idea, and he's got a LOT of work that needs to be done... "I better stay here," Colin says in resignation. "If I had a crew here that I trusted to keep up the work I need to do, that'd be something else, but good help's hard to find in the best of conditions. Go on out there and let me know how it performs. Oh, and bring me back the empties if you can, it'll be easier to make more if I don't have to start from scratch every time."

Day 217 (Open)

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