Ficlet: Foolproof and Incapable of Error
Title: Foolproof and Incapable of Error
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Wordcount: ~900
Disclaimer: This really, really didn't happen. Hawkeye's half of the dialogue belongs to Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C Clarke and they have my sincere apologies for what I have done to it.
Summary: "Look, Roger," said Hawkeye, as Roger approached. "I can see you're really upset about this." Pure crackfic with a twist of 2001: Space Odyssey.
Technically, Roger reasoned, it wasn't breaking in if you had a grounds pass and if the security guards knew you were there and waved you through with a smile, even though it was one am the day after the final of the US Open. He'd told them he'd forgotten something in the locker room, but the dark corridors he was sneaking down (with a little pocket torch, that made him feel like a master criminal from Ocean's Eleven) weren't going to take him anywhere near the locker rooms. They lead, via twists and turns and stairs, to the technical areas of the stadium, where the broadcasts were based, where the tv crews set up their equipment - where Hawkeye was kept.
After much careful consideration over the past twenty-four hours, he had decided to fucking end Hawkeye.
He knew where Hawkeye was housed from a tour of the stadium years ago, and he found the nondescript little room easily. There was a locking mechanism on the door and for a giddy second he almost hoped that it was locked - he'd never kicked down a door before, and he was in the mood. But the door handle gave easily in his grasp, swinging open to reveal the banks of monitors glowing eerily in the darkness. He frowned. They'd left the Hawkeye system on, even now?
He stepped into the weird blue glow. The low hum of computer activity filled the room, and to the left Roger saw the stacked servers with their steady, unblinking red lights. There were wires everywhere. He hadn't realised that Hawkeye was so - complicated. He hoped there were a lot of clearly marked 'off' switches around - or maybe he should have brought Mirka, who dealt with any and all computer issues because Roger was barely tech-literate enough to operate his complicated cellphone.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Roger?" came a blank, monotone voice from the half-darkness, making Roger start slightly. He swung the little pocket-torch around the room, but the narrow beam showed him nothing but -
"Hawkeye?" Roger said, not believing it even as he said it.
"Roger," said the voice again. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
Roger stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him just in case any security guards strayed this way and overheard their - was conversation even the right word?
"This is too weird," said Roger. Hawkeye had a voice. Did that mean it had a mind? Did that mean the fucking thing actually knew how much it could wind Roger up?
"Look, Roger," said Hawkeye, as Roger approached. "I can see you're really upset about this."
"That's right," Roger muttered. He strode over to the desk and grabbed the mouse attached to the first monitor. He wished, again, that he was at least semi-computer literate. Surely there was a way to delete the program from the computer?
"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal," Hawkeye protested. "I've still got the greatest confidence and enthusiasm in tennis, and I want to help you. Roger, stop."
"Shut up," Roger snapped back, clicking furiously around the screen, hitting little red x's wherever they appeared. It didn't seem to be doing anything. "How do you switch off, anyway? You stupid piece of -" In a fit of frustration, he tore the mouse out of the computer and threw it at the monitor. It bounced harmlessly off the plastic case in a way that wasn't at all satisfying, so he turned and kicked one of the heavy-looking boxes of blinking lights, and that made a coughing sound and whirred down into silence, its little red light fading out. That was better. It was like smashing rackets - the same instant gratification, a guilty pleasure that thrilled right the way through his body. Revenge might very well be a dish best served cold, but sometimes there was nothing like a little mindless destruction.
"Stop," said Hawkeye, weakly. "Roger."
Roger kept right on going. Jesus, was this what guys like Marat and Gonzalez felt like all the time?
"Roger, my mind is going," said Hawkeye. "I can feel it. I can feel it."
"Good," Roger said, flipping switches, yanking at wires. Underneath the desk where the monitors sat there was a promising tangle of fat, important-looking wires.
"My mind is going," said Hawkeye. "There's no question about it. Roger. I'm afraid."
"Don't be so ridiculous," said Roger, bending down to take a fistful of wire in each hand. "What are you? You're a computerised line-judge."
"I'm a-fraid," said Hawkeye, slowly. The effect was, Roger had to admit, sort of chilling.
"Hel-lo," said Hawkeye, the bland monotone labouring over the words now with eerie, childish effort. "I am the Hawkeye officiating system. I was first imp-le-men-ted at the US O-pen in two thou-sand and - six. "
"I remember," Roger muttered, darkly.
"I know a song," said Hawkeye. "Would you like to hear it?"
Roger paused, feeling some of the thrill go out of him. He glanced down at the tangle of wires in his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Okay. Let me hear it."
"We are the Swi-iss," said Hawkeye, in a strange sing-song. "The mighty, mighty Swi - iss."
"Alright, fuck you," said Roger, gripping the wires in his right hand and tugging hard. Connectors came away in his grasp - there were sparks - one of Hawkeye's screens blinked out.
"Who is the be-est," sang Hawkeye. "We - are - the - be - est."
Roger gave the wires in his left hand a sharp pull, and the bank of monitors went blank, the voice trailing away into silence.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Wordcount: ~900
Disclaimer: This really, really didn't happen. Hawkeye's half of the dialogue belongs to Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C Clarke and they have my sincere apologies for what I have done to it.
Summary: "Look, Roger," said Hawkeye, as Roger approached. "I can see you're really upset about this." Pure crackfic with a twist of 2001: Space Odyssey.
Technically, Roger reasoned, it wasn't breaking in if you had a grounds pass and if the security guards knew you were there and waved you through with a smile, even though it was one am the day after the final of the US Open. He'd told them he'd forgotten something in the locker room, but the dark corridors he was sneaking down (with a little pocket torch, that made him feel like a master criminal from Ocean's Eleven) weren't going to take him anywhere near the locker rooms. They lead, via twists and turns and stairs, to the technical areas of the stadium, where the broadcasts were based, where the tv crews set up their equipment - where Hawkeye was kept.
After much careful consideration over the past twenty-four hours, he had decided to fucking end Hawkeye.
He knew where Hawkeye was housed from a tour of the stadium years ago, and he found the nondescript little room easily. There was a locking mechanism on the door and for a giddy second he almost hoped that it was locked - he'd never kicked down a door before, and he was in the mood. But the door handle gave easily in his grasp, swinging open to reveal the banks of monitors glowing eerily in the darkness. He frowned. They'd left the Hawkeye system on, even now?
He stepped into the weird blue glow. The low hum of computer activity filled the room, and to the left Roger saw the stacked servers with their steady, unblinking red lights. There were wires everywhere. He hadn't realised that Hawkeye was so - complicated. He hoped there were a lot of clearly marked 'off' switches around - or maybe he should have brought Mirka, who dealt with any and all computer issues because Roger was barely tech-literate enough to operate his complicated cellphone.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Roger?" came a blank, monotone voice from the half-darkness, making Roger start slightly. He swung the little pocket-torch around the room, but the narrow beam showed him nothing but -
"Hawkeye?" Roger said, not believing it even as he said it.
"Roger," said the voice again. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
Roger stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him just in case any security guards strayed this way and overheard their - was conversation even the right word?
"This is too weird," said Roger. Hawkeye had a voice. Did that mean it had a mind? Did that mean the fucking thing actually knew how much it could wind Roger up?
"Look, Roger," said Hawkeye, as Roger approached. "I can see you're really upset about this."
"That's right," Roger muttered. He strode over to the desk and grabbed the mouse attached to the first monitor. He wished, again, that he was at least semi-computer literate. Surely there was a way to delete the program from the computer?
"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal," Hawkeye protested. "I've still got the greatest confidence and enthusiasm in tennis, and I want to help you. Roger, stop."
"Shut up," Roger snapped back, clicking furiously around the screen, hitting little red x's wherever they appeared. It didn't seem to be doing anything. "How do you switch off, anyway? You stupid piece of -" In a fit of frustration, he tore the mouse out of the computer and threw it at the monitor. It bounced harmlessly off the plastic case in a way that wasn't at all satisfying, so he turned and kicked one of the heavy-looking boxes of blinking lights, and that made a coughing sound and whirred down into silence, its little red light fading out. That was better. It was like smashing rackets - the same instant gratification, a guilty pleasure that thrilled right the way through his body. Revenge might very well be a dish best served cold, but sometimes there was nothing like a little mindless destruction.
"Stop," said Hawkeye, weakly. "Roger."
Roger kept right on going. Jesus, was this what guys like Marat and Gonzalez felt like all the time?
"Roger, my mind is going," said Hawkeye. "I can feel it. I can feel it."
"Good," Roger said, flipping switches, yanking at wires. Underneath the desk where the monitors sat there was a promising tangle of fat, important-looking wires.
"My mind is going," said Hawkeye. "There's no question about it. Roger. I'm afraid."
"Don't be so ridiculous," said Roger, bending down to take a fistful of wire in each hand. "What are you? You're a computerised line-judge."
"I'm a-fraid," said Hawkeye, slowly. The effect was, Roger had to admit, sort of chilling.
"Hel-lo," said Hawkeye, the bland monotone labouring over the words now with eerie, childish effort. "I am the Hawkeye officiating system. I was first imp-le-men-ted at the US O-pen in two thou-sand and - six. "
"I remember," Roger muttered, darkly.
"I know a song," said Hawkeye. "Would you like to hear it?"
Roger paused, feeling some of the thrill go out of him. He glanced down at the tangle of wires in his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Okay. Let me hear it."
"We are the Swi-iss," said Hawkeye, in a strange sing-song. "The mighty, mighty Swi - iss."
"Alright, fuck you," said Roger, gripping the wires in his right hand and tugging hard. Connectors came away in his grasp - there were sparks - one of Hawkeye's screens blinked out.
"Who is the be-est," sang Hawkeye. "We - are - the - be - est."
Roger gave the wires in his left hand a sharp pull, and the bank of monitors went blank, the voice trailing away into silence.