that's how the light gets in.
Two Southland AUs.
1. ROBOTS. For
verying.
Take My Badge (But My Main Action Fluid Pump Remains)
Ben, John, PG, 369 words
Summary: "Shut up. You're going to run your battery down."
Unfinished notes: This was going to be a sort of five things type thing--probably "five ways robots are fine, and one way they aren't," and the latter would've been that Russell is malfunctioning all over the place.
verying thought it was the only way his character made sense in the first season, and I'm not inclined to disagree. What's actually here: robot!John gets shot oh noes!
Title paraphrased from "Tighten Up" by The Black Keys.
---
Ben didn't expect it to look so--gory. The hole in John's chest is a gaping, sparking maw; iridescent fluid leaks across the concrete. The edges of John's uniform shirt and Kevlar vest smoke and smolder. Ben can see the layers of synthetic skin and muscle, circuitry and stuttering moving parts from where he crouches beside John.
John isn't breathing, his mouth isn't moving, but he's speaking quietly, a faint, tinny echo of himself. "Foot pursuit, boot, what the fuck are you doing--"
"Waiting for the ambulance," Ben says. He pulls rubber gloves from his duty belt--the talc inside the right glove is gritty and catches under his nails as he pushes his fingers home. There could be a short in John's nervous system, turning his whole body into a live wire. Ben shouldn't be this close; the recommended distance is thirty feet. If he was thirty feet away, he wouldn't be able to hear John.
"--dumbass fucking rookie--"
Ben rolls his eyes. "Shut up. You're going to run your battery down." He yanks the second glove up to his elbow and touches John's wrist.
"Jesus Christ," John's back-up speaker whispers exasperatedly.
The ambulance sirens scream around the corner and Ben jumps up, waving the van and its entourage of police cruisers into the parking lot.
The E-MTs push him away and surround John, electrodes and probes and meters in their hands. Ben stays as close as he can, watching them reach into their bags for single-use soldering guns in little sterile packets and spools of glistening fibreoptic cable.
"We've got a slipped servo," one of them announces breathlessly. "Looks old, though--"
"Just patch him up. We gotta get him into the lab ward," another says.
"For fuck's sake," John spits.
"Main action fluid pump intact," the last E-MT says, and all three of them relax.
Ben sighs in relief too and meets Chickie's eyes across the lot. She's standing with the cops who've just arrived, arms crossed tightly, one hand clasping her own thick rubber gloves. Ben gives her a nod and a half-smile and she nods and smiles back.
*
2. TOTALITARIAN POLICE STATE AU. I don't know.
i will think of you in pieces (i will picture us found)
John, Ben, Chickie, Cesar, R, 1144 words
Summary: "Department 6 purged the 203 last night."
Unfinished notes: I need to work on not building worlds that fall over and squash me. I really like the concept for this, and I like what's here. The details and the politics got overwhelming, though.
Content notes: Police brutality--white men on a white woman and a man of colour.
Title from "Carmelina" by Matthew Good Band. The video is about professional corporate torturers?
---
Sherman is waiting when John gets to the locker room the next morning. He's sitting on one of the benches, only an undershirt and the bottom half of his uniform on, boots undone, hands hanging between his knees. He looks up at John with a terrible, blank face.
"They purged the 203 last night," he says.
John doesn't want to know how Sherman knows this; he knows it himself, through less than official channels, so he just nods. "It happens."
"They detained Chickie," Sherman says.
John blinks down at him, because that--he hadn't known that. He says, shortly, "That's what they do."
"Chickie," Sherman insists. John's gaze flicks up to the corners of the ceiling: to the air vents that hide cameras and microphones.
"I'm sure there's a reason," he says, carefully neutral.
Sherman shakes his head and exhales hard through his nose. "She's sitting in a room waiting to be tortured, Cooper--"
"Evaluated and interrogated," John corrects, because he can do that. That's his job--to instruct Sherman on matters of terminology and protocol, and correct him when he fucks up. He can't tell Sherman to watch his fucking mouth when they're on state property, because that's as bad as uttering treason himself.
"Right," Sherman says, frowning and studying his hands.
John opens the door of his locker and looks at his gleaming gun belt. It's going to be a long fucking day.
After they pick up their assigned weapons from the armoury, John picks up their file for the day. The label along the long, open edge says BROWN CHARLOTTE ROSE.
He turns the file so the label is against his body, out of Sherman's sight.
"13A," the holding officer says, passing a key through the window of her booth.
"Thank you, officer," John says with a smile, just like he does every morning. The holding officer smiles back tightly and buzzes them through to the cells.
Outside 13A, John pauses with the key in the lock. "We're going in one-and-one on this," he says, and Sherman nods.
"Yes, sir," he says. He takes in and lets out a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.
"Jesus Christ, John," Chickie says exasperatedly when John opens the door.
Sherman is at his back, and John feels him freeze at the sound of her voice.
"Officer Cooper," John says, entering the small room. Chickie goes stiff and blank-faced.
"Officer Cooper," she says, disbelieving.
"Good morning, Ms. Brown," he says. He looks at Sherman, who is hanging in the doorway like Chickie's fingertips are hanging on to the edge of the table.
Sherman looks back at him, mouth tight, eyes pleading. John shakes his head minutely, because they're not getting out of this one. He flicks his eyes into the room and Sherman goes. He doesn't meet Chickie's eyes when she stares desperately at him. He takes up his position behind her chair.
"Can you tell me why D6 arrested you this morning, Ms. Brown?" John asks, leaning over the table, hands on the back of the second chair. He raises his eyebrows in polite inquiry when Chickie's furious gaze snaps back to him.
"Officer Brown," she says.
"Detainees have no privilege of rank," John says automatically, and ignores the way Sherman's mouth creases in displeasure. "Why did D6 arrest you this morning?"
"I don't know," she says, frustrated. John waits, and tilts his head, and finally looks up at Sherman.
Sherman's right hand is drawn back, his arm a crisp curve of proscribed movement, but he's not moving. His eyes are clenched shut.
"Ms. Brown," John says, staring at Sherman, willing him to do his fucking job and keep them all from getting killed. "Why did D6 arrest you this morning?"
She slams her palms down on the table, rattling it where it's bolted to the floor. "I don't fucking know!" she yells, and then she gasps as she hits the floor. She cups her ear and jaw reflexively.
Sherman bends down and hauls her back up into the chair. His hands don't linger on her arms. He lets go and steps away, hands behind his back. He looks across at John with wet, wrathful eyes. John ignores the sick thump of his heart and leans further over the table, getting as close to her as he can. She squints at him, still cradling her face.
He spits at her, "In case you hadn't guessed, that's the wrong fucking answer."
John sets his hands firmly on the next file in their queue. He spreads his palms and fingers open over the brown paper to stop them shaking. He takes a deep breath and nearly chokes whe he reads the name on the edge of the folder. ROJAS CESAR ORLANDO.
Chickie. Dewey. Cesar.
This is not about a purge.
He looks back down the hall, where Sherman is talking with the Staff Sargeant, hands in his pockets, easy smile. Sherman meets John's eyes and raises his eyebrows. John lifts the folder and cocks his head to beckon Sherman, who nods and salutes the Staff Sargeant smartly.
John opens the door and slaps the folder down in front of Cesar, whose jaw is tight, whose eyes are wide. The door clicks shut behind Sherman.
"What the hell is going on?" Cesar demands.
"Shoot him," John says without looking at Sherman, with an abbreviated gesture towards Cesar's fine, familiar head. Cesar jerks back and lifts his hands, palms out. One of his wrists is handcuffed to the table.
"What?" Sherman and Cesar say.
"Shoot him," John repeats, turning to look at Sherman's shocked face. "In the head." Sherman doesn't move. "Now."
"What the fuck," Cesar shouts, high and panicked. John turns back to him, clenching his jaw to keep his face cold and blank as cement. "Hey, hey," Cesar says, and then his body rocks back in the metal chair; a spray of him foams the wall red. His body slumps in the chair.
John stands up straight and picks up Cesar's file and leaves the room. Sherman doesn't try to stop him, just stands with both hands on his lowered gun, eyes on Cesar's body still cuffed to the table.
*
...I don't know how the whacky robot AU lives in the same brain as the terrible, terrible police state AU. I DON'T KNOW. \o?
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Please comment on the original post here. There are currently
comments.
1. ROBOTS. For
verying.
Take My Badge (But My Main Action Fluid Pump Remains)
Ben, John, PG, 369 words
Summary: "Shut up. You're going to run your battery down."
Unfinished notes: This was going to be a sort of five things type thing--probably "five ways robots are fine, and one way they aren't," and the latter would've been that Russell is malfunctioning all over the place.
verying thought it was the only way his character made sense in the first season, and I'm not inclined to disagree. What's actually here: robot!John gets shot oh noes!
Title paraphrased from "Tighten Up" by The Black Keys.
---
Ben didn't expect it to look so--gory. The hole in John's chest is a gaping, sparking maw; iridescent fluid leaks across the concrete. The edges of John's uniform shirt and Kevlar vest smoke and smolder. Ben can see the layers of synthetic skin and muscle, circuitry and stuttering moving parts from where he crouches beside John.
John isn't breathing, his mouth isn't moving, but he's speaking quietly, a faint, tinny echo of himself. "Foot pursuit, boot, what the fuck are you doing--"
"Waiting for the ambulance," Ben says. He pulls rubber gloves from his duty belt--the talc inside the right glove is gritty and catches under his nails as he pushes his fingers home. There could be a short in John's nervous system, turning his whole body into a live wire. Ben shouldn't be this close; the recommended distance is thirty feet. If he was thirty feet away, he wouldn't be able to hear John.
"--dumbass fucking rookie--"
Ben rolls his eyes. "Shut up. You're going to run your battery down." He yanks the second glove up to his elbow and touches John's wrist.
"Jesus Christ," John's back-up speaker whispers exasperatedly.
The ambulance sirens scream around the corner and Ben jumps up, waving the van and its entourage of police cruisers into the parking lot.
The E-MTs push him away and surround John, electrodes and probes and meters in their hands. Ben stays as close as he can, watching them reach into their bags for single-use soldering guns in little sterile packets and spools of glistening fibreoptic cable.
"We've got a slipped servo," one of them announces breathlessly. "Looks old, though--"
"Just patch him up. We gotta get him into the lab ward," another says.
"For fuck's sake," John spits.
"Main action fluid pump intact," the last E-MT says, and all three of them relax.
Ben sighs in relief too and meets Chickie's eyes across the lot. She's standing with the cops who've just arrived, arms crossed tightly, one hand clasping her own thick rubber gloves. Ben gives her a nod and a half-smile and she nods and smiles back.
*
2. TOTALITARIAN POLICE STATE AU. I don't know.
i will think of you in pieces (i will picture us found)
John, Ben, Chickie, Cesar, R, 1144 words
Summary: "Department 6 purged the 203 last night."
Unfinished notes: I need to work on not building worlds that fall over and squash me. I really like the concept for this, and I like what's here. The details and the politics got overwhelming, though.
Content notes: Police brutality--white men on a white woman and a man of colour.
Title from "Carmelina" by Matthew Good Band. The video is about professional corporate torturers?
---
Sherman is waiting when John gets to the locker room the next morning. He's sitting on one of the benches, only an undershirt and the bottom half of his uniform on, boots undone, hands hanging between his knees. He looks up at John with a terrible, blank face.
"They purged the 203 last night," he says.
John doesn't want to know how Sherman knows this; he knows it himself, through less than official channels, so he just nods. "It happens."
"They detained Chickie," Sherman says.
John blinks down at him, because that--he hadn't known that. He says, shortly, "That's what they do."
"Chickie," Sherman insists. John's gaze flicks up to the corners of the ceiling: to the air vents that hide cameras and microphones.
"I'm sure there's a reason," he says, carefully neutral.
Sherman shakes his head and exhales hard through his nose. "She's sitting in a room waiting to be tortured, Cooper--"
"Evaluated and interrogated," John corrects, because he can do that. That's his job--to instruct Sherman on matters of terminology and protocol, and correct him when he fucks up. He can't tell Sherman to watch his fucking mouth when they're on state property, because that's as bad as uttering treason himself.
"Right," Sherman says, frowning and studying his hands.
John opens the door of his locker and looks at his gleaming gun belt. It's going to be a long fucking day.
After they pick up their assigned weapons from the armoury, John picks up their file for the day. The label along the long, open edge says BROWN CHARLOTTE ROSE.
He turns the file so the label is against his body, out of Sherman's sight.
"13A," the holding officer says, passing a key through the window of her booth.
"Thank you, officer," John says with a smile, just like he does every morning. The holding officer smiles back tightly and buzzes them through to the cells.
Outside 13A, John pauses with the key in the lock. "We're going in one-and-one on this," he says, and Sherman nods.
"Yes, sir," he says. He takes in and lets out a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.
"Jesus Christ, John," Chickie says exasperatedly when John opens the door.
Sherman is at his back, and John feels him freeze at the sound of her voice.
"Officer Cooper," John says, entering the small room. Chickie goes stiff and blank-faced.
"Officer Cooper," she says, disbelieving.
"Good morning, Ms. Brown," he says. He looks at Sherman, who is hanging in the doorway like Chickie's fingertips are hanging on to the edge of the table.
Sherman looks back at him, mouth tight, eyes pleading. John shakes his head minutely, because they're not getting out of this one. He flicks his eyes into the room and Sherman goes. He doesn't meet Chickie's eyes when she stares desperately at him. He takes up his position behind her chair.
"Can you tell me why D6 arrested you this morning, Ms. Brown?" John asks, leaning over the table, hands on the back of the second chair. He raises his eyebrows in polite inquiry when Chickie's furious gaze snaps back to him.
"Officer Brown," she says.
"Detainees have no privilege of rank," John says automatically, and ignores the way Sherman's mouth creases in displeasure. "Why did D6 arrest you this morning?"
"I don't know," she says, frustrated. John waits, and tilts his head, and finally looks up at Sherman.
Sherman's right hand is drawn back, his arm a crisp curve of proscribed movement, but he's not moving. His eyes are clenched shut.
"Ms. Brown," John says, staring at Sherman, willing him to do his fucking job and keep them all from getting killed. "Why did D6 arrest you this morning?"
She slams her palms down on the table, rattling it where it's bolted to the floor. "I don't fucking know!" she yells, and then she gasps as she hits the floor. She cups her ear and jaw reflexively.
Sherman bends down and hauls her back up into the chair. His hands don't linger on her arms. He lets go and steps away, hands behind his back. He looks across at John with wet, wrathful eyes. John ignores the sick thump of his heart and leans further over the table, getting as close to her as he can. She squints at him, still cradling her face.
He spits at her, "In case you hadn't guessed, that's the wrong fucking answer."
John sets his hands firmly on the next file in their queue. He spreads his palms and fingers open over the brown paper to stop them shaking. He takes a deep breath and nearly chokes whe he reads the name on the edge of the folder. ROJAS CESAR ORLANDO.
Chickie. Dewey. Cesar.
This is not about a purge.
He looks back down the hall, where Sherman is talking with the Staff Sargeant, hands in his pockets, easy smile. Sherman meets John's eyes and raises his eyebrows. John lifts the folder and cocks his head to beckon Sherman, who nods and salutes the Staff Sargeant smartly.
John opens the door and slaps the folder down in front of Cesar, whose jaw is tight, whose eyes are wide. The door clicks shut behind Sherman.
"What the hell is going on?" Cesar demands.
"Shoot him," John says without looking at Sherman, with an abbreviated gesture towards Cesar's fine, familiar head. Cesar jerks back and lifts his hands, palms out. One of his wrists is handcuffed to the table.
"What?" Sherman and Cesar say.
"Shoot him," John repeats, turning to look at Sherman's shocked face. "In the head." Sherman doesn't move. "Now."
"What the fuck," Cesar shouts, high and panicked. John turns back to him, clenching his jaw to keep his face cold and blank as cement. "Hey, hey," Cesar says, and then his body rocks back in the metal chair; a spray of him foams the wall red. His body slumps in the chair.
John stands up straight and picks up Cesar's file and leaves the room. Sherman doesn't try to stop him, just stands with both hands on his lowered gun, eyes on Cesar's body still cuffed to the table.
*
...I don't know how the whacky robot AU lives in the same brain as the terrible, terrible police state AU. I DON'T KNOW. \o?
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Please comment on the original post here. There are currently
comments.