apocalypsehowcomm | NETWORK - Help Wanted/Offered

Entry tags:

NETWORK - Help Wanted/Offered

Who: Nick Valentine
Username: valentine
Warnings: Discussion of robot parts and the repair thereof, robot existentialism + objectification

Hey folks, it's Valentine here. Now that I've had a taste of nitty gritty fieldwork, I think it'd be prudent of me to take a few precautions. I'm looking for a good mechanic. And I'd prefer not to involve ADI at this point, so please don't suggest I just consult with the Technology department. Let's keep this one on one for now.

The parts are proprietary and you won't have seen them before, so I need a quick learner. Advanced experience is a plus, but I've done just fine with regular Joes and Jills up to this point. The absolute most important qualification, though, is that you let me buy you a drink and have a chat with you first. Amateur transhumanism philosophers need not apply, thanks.

I'm willing to either pay or trade what you think is fair. Favors, errands. Maybe I can teach you something.

You know what, let's make that a general offer. Even if you're not a mechanic, I'm happy to teach what skills I can to anybody interested. Want to learn to shoot a gun? Use a computer? Make a theory corkboard? Swing dance? Hit me up and let's make it a date.

Really, I can't stress enough how much extra time I've got on my hands.

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"I'll pick us up some next time I'm out." And he won't even complain about how expensive air is. But he'll sure be thinking it.

"Hell, Slick, it's jes' like the bunkhouse. We'd all be in all kinds a' states, shaving, washing up. Nobody never paid nobody much nevermind. You ain't got nothing to worry about with me." He understands why it hits differently for him to some degree, how hesitant he is to show himself, especially when he's forced to go around human outside the compound.

It's why he's trying to make it as normal as he can for him now.

Nick folds up his shirt and sets it aside with his coat. Keeps his hat on as usual, though, even if they are indoors.

"Well, uh. Let's see." He turns in his chair, motioning with his right arm. "So my outside's made up of these plates. Some kind of durable polymer, with a layer of rubberized 'skin' over top. Got these big screws here that keep 'em in place. You undo those, and the plate slides off to expose my innards. I can do the limbs myself, but can't reach my own shoulders, so... go ahead and start there."

So far, this isn't that weird. He's explained this much to half a dozen mechanics over the years, Arturo and Sturges most recently.

"Awwright. Yep. I see them screws." He tucks the pliers into his back pocket and gets to work with the screwdriver, keeping good, steady pressure so he doesn't slip. Each time he pulls one out, he turns to set it on the coffee table in an order that makes sense to him. He'll put the same ones back in their same places when he's done.

He only feels a little bit of nerves at the last screw, not sure what he's going to see when he slides the plate away. He also puts that on the table when it's done, already relieved there's nothing red or squishy looking in there. He's not sure why he worried there might be.

Nothing red or squishy, thankfully. The interior of Nick's arm is all metal, a steel endoskeleton surrounded by wires and circuitry. There's not much in the way of shine left on any of the metal pieces, but everything is pretty clean and well-maintained, for his age.

"Don't bother with the wires or anything. Just take a look here." He lifts his arm and moves it, showing off the assembly of gears that make up his elbow joint. "Go ahead and tighten that... that screw's a little stripped, so it gets slippy sometimes. Easy to replace, when I find the right size. Thankfully, looks like the Institute used standard hardware when they churned me out."

"I see it," he says, watching with a keen eye. He uses a brace trick his old man showed him, palm against the top of the handle as he twists. It slips once or twice. Not far. Not digging in anywhere it shouldn't or hitting any of the wires.

"I'll keep an eye out at the hardware store for the right size." He's not sure he'll find anything that large, but maybe. If not, he has been slowly learning about ordering things online.

"Anywhere else you need adjusting?"

"Yeah. Gimme a minute, though. I'm gonna have to adjust my pants."

Nick straightens out his arm and directs George how to put the plates back on, then fumbles around for his shirt again. It's both to cover back up, and to buy some time to figure out if he can pull his pant leg up past his knee. Thankfully, the trousers are loose enough on him he thinks he can swing it.

"Back home, if something breaks, I can go scavenging for replacements. There's loads of other synths with my model year skulking around. Always creeps me out a bit, taking apart something that looks just like me. But I just tell myself the poor, dumb bastards would do the same to me if they were programmed to."

After he finishes with the plates, he steps back out of his way to let him do his thing. It wasn't as strange as he worried it could be. He doesn't feel like he really...did...all that much. Almost anybody could tighten a screw. It looked like there were a lot of other ways and places things could go wrong he wouldn't have the first clue what to do with.

"They busted up and out a' commission?" It's a bit tentative the way he asks. He doesn't want to make him feel awkward.

He goes down to a knee, prepared to follow the next instructions. It would be nice in a way if people could patch themselves up like that. Discard a broken piece for a new one. At the same time, it would feel wrong and scary. Scavenging from people who couldn't use what they had anymore. It sounds like Nick feels exactly that same way. "I've heard Cortana say 'programming.' What does it mean? If you don't want me asking questions, I'll shut it."

"Eh... sometimes." Nick lifts a shoulder in a sort of shrug. "Mechanical synths l like me are already a pretty old model. Gen-2s, they call us. But the Institute still sends them up to the surface to fetch things. Supplies, tools... sometimes they even kidnap or kill people. If I can't find one lying around busted, it's not too hard to find one causing trouble somewhere, shoot 'em down and scavenge."

It occurs to him he hasn't explained much about himself to George at all. Sort of a consequence of George being unfamiliar with any level of tech, much less something like him.

"You can ask me anything you want. I don't mind at all." He thinks for a moment as he rolls up his pant leg. "Programming is... telling a machine how to work and what to do, basically. When you set the time on an alarm clock, you're programming it when to go off. When you turn the knob on a radio, you're programming it to change channels or turn up the volume. The way people work by thinking, machines work by how they're programmed, see?"

He vaguely gestures at himself. "Most Gen-2s like me are programmed to observe their surroundings, make decisions, and to obey the Institute's orders, no matter what. But when they made me, for some reason, they programmed me like this. I don't follow their orders. I have memories, and a personality. It's technically still programming, but it's... free will, or something like it."

At first it's disturbing to hear he has shot people like him to take their parts. Even if they were doing bad things, there had to be some other way to deal with it, right? It's not the picture he's had of Nick in his head at all, and he's careful to keep his eyes focused on his leg, what he wants to show him.

The part about programming gives it a different context. If he was shooting things programmed like...like alarm clocks, except to kidnap or kill people...well, that couldn't be so bad, could it? Better to stop them and put them to good use if he could.

"So you's the only one you ever met who's a person?" he asks, finally looking up. "Was other people scared a' you 'cause they didn't know? Or was it always easy for 'em to tell?"

"Oh yeah. I am," Nick says, rather hastily. Boy, that would have sounded pretty barbaric if he hadn't gotten that bit clarified quickly. (He is also touched that George uses the phrase "person" on him.) "Every other mechanical synth I've ever seen is a dumb bucket of bolts. Just as soon shoot you or snatch you underground as anything. If there are more synths like me, I've never met 'em."

His pant leg is rolled up enough to expose his knee, and he props his leg up on a stool to show George the screws that hold those plates on, too. The "skin" on his leg is also in decent shape.

"Oh, tons of people are scared of me." He chuckles. "I don't blame 'em... like I said, I'm apparently one-of-a-kind. Every other time they get a load of this ugly mug, it means bad news. I do my best to be upfront about what I am, put people at ease so they realize I'm not like the others. Most of 'em come around eventually... and the ones who don't aren't worth dealing with, most of the time."

He tries to imagine what that would be like, wonders if it wears on him. He feels like if he were in his place it would, having to take down others like himself and not like himself. Maybe always wondering if that particular one was like him and he made a mistake.

He starts unscrewing the plating just as efficiently as he did up top, handy enough with a screwdriver at least. "Yeah, I reckon not." There's something niggling at him a little, though.

"I like you a lot, Nick. I hope you know you don't have to work to put me at ease." Maybe he really is as friendly and affable as he comes across. Or maybe he holds back some things because he worries if he doesn't, he'll scare people or wear out his welcome. He knows plenty of what that's like, having had to play a lot of different roles depending on the environment of his job.

"I reckon what I'm trying to say is you don't have to...hold back if something bothers you or pretend anything's OK if it isn't." He removes the plating carefully. "You ain't gonna send me running."

Nick looks a little surprised to hear that last bit. Not because he doubts George would think so, necessarily, but because he wonders if it sounds like he's complaining about it. If it seems like he's tired or resenting the need to keep up an act.

He also doesn't want to turn it into that if it's not, though.

"I appreciate that, George. More than you know." He offers a semi-awkward little smile and shuffles a little in his seat. "I mean- I know you're good for it, if I ever need to be honest. We're past that point by now."

His fingers tap against the fabric of his rolled-up pant leg. "I sure do spend a lot of time and energy justifying my own existence to people, though. Wonder how much I'd get done if I didn't have to. I'm glad I don't with you, at least."

"Yeah, I jes'...there's knowing it and hearin' it. Sometimes it can be nice to hear." It takes the guesswork out. He nods, glancing up at him again. "You get a lot a' that here, too, or you talking more back home?"

Now that he has the plating off, he sets it aside and sits back on his heels waiting for instructions. The innards look the same down here, wires, metal supports, screws, gears. He wonders how it feels to be metal inside, if it's different from having bones and muscles. If it is, would Nick know? It's something that isn't easy to imagine.

He realizes he's had to use his own imagination here more than he ever did in years at home. It has made for some tossing and turning when he hasn't worked hard enough to wear himself out. It hasn't been all bad, though.

"Back home. Though honestly... I guess I'm so used to it I end up doing it automatically." How much time has he spent here trying to explain himself to people, painstakingly pointing out that the man whose face he wears away from HQ isn't really him, the specifics of his make and model...

He folds his arms and makes a bit of a face at that realization.

"There's a couple screws need tightening around the knee assembly. You'll see 'em. You can lift the wires out of the way gently if you need to. Gently, though, no tuggin'." Nick smirks suddenly, shaking his head. "Heh. Really ought to replace those... got my leg blown off in an explosion and they've been slippy ever since."

"Yeah, I think habits like that's hard to get around." He knows he has plenty of his own, things that made more sense back home than here. It doesn't stop him from doing them.

"Jesus, lotta things explode where you's from?" He starts in with the screwdriver, finding he does have to nudge some of the wires aside. The way he handles those, it's almost like he thinks they could explode, too.

It sounds like a dangerous place, synths grabbing people and dragging them underground, scavenging from each other, explosions. It doesn't make him nostalgic for life in the bunkhouse. It does make him realize that things can always be so much worse.

"Honestly? Yes."

Nick chuckles, looking like he's reminiscing some funny anecdote. "It was about four years back. I was in a dust-up with some raiders, and I took cover behind a car. Some abandoned rusted-out husk from 200 years ago. But those Corvegas are famous for their deathtrap fusion engines. One shot and they go up like a stack of dynamite. So I hear a 'clang,' then this hissing noise, and a rapid beep... I booked it, got thrown 20 feet, and then spent 45 minutes digging through the rubble for my leg."

At least it doesn't seem like the memory troubles him at all. "Took my poor secretary a whole afternoon to get my coat sorted out. Scorchmarks and holes the size of my face all over the back."

"OK, you gotta back it up a little. What kinda engine?" He has never heard anything like that in his life, and he's big enough on repairs and motors that he's instantly interested.

He's trying not to laugh, but since it's obviously not anything that bothered Nick too much he does a little. "All things considered, that coat a' yours don't look too bad." He gives the screws a few more turns until he doesn't feel any more give.

"How's that feel?"

Yeah, that's right... George is a decade removed from any sort of understanding of that... "It's a little hard to explain. But there's something called 'nuclear' tech. Energy source that runs off of nuclear radiation. Sort of like the energy from the sun, only way smaller, up close, and frankly, a little less dangerous. Back before the war, they put nuclear engines on all types of things. Those Corvega car engines were notoriously cheap, though, and the explosions were a result of that... 'coffins on wheels,' people used to call 'em."

He waits until George moves the screwdriver and gives his knee a little test. "Oh, much better. I'm gonna make a point to replace those screws first chance I get... Not all of me's so easily put together, but luckily it's the easy bits that need fixin' most often."

"Huh." He's pretty sure he doesn't get it, but he's not going to twist himself in knots putting too much figuring behind it. The takeaway is that the cars had bum engines, and were dangerous as all get out. "Don't reckon I'd have been savin' up for anything like that," he says.

He smiles a little and nods, moving to get the plates back in place. "Movin' parts always is what gets the most wear and tear. Any other spots need tunin'?"

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NETWORK - Help Wanted/Offered

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