Fanfic: Day by Day, G, JIm Hammond
Title Day by Day
Author ani_bester
Rating G
Characters Jim Hammond, Chief Wilson
Word Count 1,665
Warnings NA
Notes So no secret I'm fascinated by Jim Hammond. I've always been by androids (blame Data), and I find it awesome that he got on the Police force, but I'm also interested in how he managed that given they weren't exactly handing jobs at the time.
Summery Jim wants very much to be a police officer, but there's a few sacrifices he needs to make, especially concerning is dignity.
The small office at the under funded police force had been able to spare for Chief Wilson amplified the heat of sweltering New York afternoon. Around him, Jim could sense the varying temperatures, the higher heat of the metal cabinet, the coolness around the Chief's small plant. What he watched though, was a bead of sweat form Chief Wilson's forehead. Jim observed as it rolled down the side of Chief Wilson's temple until The Chief raised his hand and wiped it away. Like humans, Jim could fee the breeze caused by the rickety ceiling fan that whirled over his head. He could not though, sweat. So Jim watched the perspiration on Chief Wilson's brow in silent fascination.
"Son, I need an answer." The Chief's voice drew Jim's attention away from the mysteries of humanity and back to his current plight caused by an even bigger human mystery: irrational hate.
Leaning back in the wooden chair, Jim watched the ceiling fan make it's slow revolutions as he spun the offer around in his head. After another few seconds, when he heard Chief Wilson begin to tap his finger on the desk, Jim looked back at him.
"It is not ideal," he murmured, trying his best to keep his expression polite.
To his surprise, The Chief's gaze softened and he nodded to Jim.
"I know," The Chief answered.
Jim tilted his head to the side and took a few seconds to process the unexpected reaction. He'd expected to see the Chief's expression harden; his lips turn downward, and perhaps his face darken and contort in the way Jim had come to fear. He expected to hear some variation on 'what else should a machine expect.' Instead, the Chief of Police looked at him the way Jim had seen others look at the less fortunate when they wanted to help but could not.
"Pardon," Jim said.
The Chief shook his head. "You seem like a nice fellow, no matter how you were born, and I'd be more than happy to hire you, but the brass doesn't see it like that. I don't like it one bit, but it's all I have to offer. If you're insulted, well, I can't blame you."
Jim nodded. "I- thank you," he said. Warmth filled his chest and he found it took no effort to smile. "I suppose it's not an ideal world is it," Jim sighed. "Thank you so much for fighting for me in this Sir. I'll accept the offer. When would I start?"
Chief Wilson grinned back at him, and Jim found he very much enjoyed this man's smile. "Well the silver lining to all this, son, is that you don't need to go through the academy, as you are not being hired. I do need to be sure you know procedures and the law. Granted, you did do your studying before coming up here. Still though, I'll get you some lesson books, and handouts, and some tests, and we'll try to get you set up within the next two weeks to a month, depending how fast you can pass all the tests."
Jim felt his heart rate quicken at the unexpected swiftness with which he'd be allowed to join the Brooklyn police. "Thank you sir, thank you so much," He reached for Chief Wilson's hand and gasped it with both of his, shaking it in the enthusiastic manner, he'd observed other man shake hands when a deal had gone unexpectedly well.
"You're more than welcome, Officer Hammond."
The single room apartment the police force had given to Jim still seemed too barren to him. In an attempt to add personality to his living space, he'd brought in a variety of found plants, each potted with car in discarded crates and boxes he'd found. He had also put up some of his own rather mundane attempts at artwork. He looked around the room, holding up a new painting, something he'd bought from a local, and much better, art student he's seen sketching one day while on parole. The painting, of a boy cooking with his mother, was extraordinary and Jim felt his own work looked crude in comparison. He found though, that he didn't want to take his art all down, but clearly the art student's should be the centerpiece.
Jim went over to the radio that sat on a nightstand next to the bed Jim had bought purely to stop questions about a bed's absence. Flipping on the radio, Jim felt better as the quick syncopated beats of Jazz filled his apartment and seemed to warm the room in a way Jim didn't think made sense, but none the less seemed to happen.
Moving to the rhythm of the music, Jim began to arrange his paintings in different ways, trying to decide which he liked best, and wondering if he should call Officer Dean for assistance. Numerous publications suggested women were better at decorating a room than men, though Jim didn't know why that would be. Then again, Jim wasn't sure he qualified as either a woman or a man, so perhaps is judgment would not be flawed in the way the same publications suggested a man's judgment could be. Having never had his decorative skills critized, except for the absence of a bed, Jim decided to trust his own judgment.
It took until the news came on at 7:00 for Jim to decide on an arrangement for his paintings. He'd spent much longer than he'd meant to though, and it was past time to water the plants. He kept the radio on, ignoring the drone of the newscaster as he poured water into the wildflowers he'd picked from empty lots. A sudden familiar voice however, ripped his attention from the plants.
"I don't think the public fully understands the benefits." It was Chief Wilson's voice, and he sounded irritable, like a man speaking to a sullen child.
"I think the public sees a job given to a machine, or a monster as some argue, that could have gone to a red-blooded American trying to support a family. In fact-"
Jim frowned at the phrase. He'd never understood why people made note of an American's blood color. None of the recording he'd listen too while sealed in his concrete tomb had suggested human blood varied in color due to place of origin.
Jim's attention was drawn back to the report as Chief Wilson answered a comment by making a noise that sounded as though he'd exhaled quickly through his nose. "Find me a man who can support his family on a so called job that's not paying him anything, and then yes, we did take that position from him. I just didn't think that many people wanted to risk their lives for a job that paid nothing."
"So you deny paying it?"
Jim winced.
"I don't deny anything. It's a matter of public record that Officer Hammond is not on payroll. The agreement we reached is that the police would purchase him for a specified fee each month; a fee which is enough to keep him housed and clothed, but wouldn't serve an actual human being very well, and certainly not a family man."
Jim closed his eyes and tried to fight the odd sick feeling inside. He worked through it, wondering if this was anger or humiliation.
"Perhaps both," he murmured to himself.
The agreement had been hard to stomach. Being told he'd be purchased like a police dog at best, a simple handgun at worst, had been humiliating enough without the whole city knowing of the agreement. Then again, if knowing kept people from demanding he be removed, or put into concrete again, then he would learn to tolerate this, even if he doubted he would ever like it.
"Given the devastation it caused, do you think the city can truly trust Horton's Monster? Are people really going to want Officer Monster protecting them?"
Hearing what the news still insisted on calling him, Jim felt his cheeks burn. The sudden desire to do the damage the newscaster feared willed up from deep in Jim's chest. He took deep breath, feeling first shame, than justification. He reminded himself of the curses and dark looks he's seen on the faces of those the news also marginalized. The anger flooding though him was not an improper response.
"First, we're calling him Jim, Jim Hammond. Officer Hammond just rolls off the tongue better than Officer Monster."
Jim felt his lips twitch at that.
"Second, the so called "rampages" you enjoy hyping up were nothing more than a scared person with a power he couldn’t control. He never intended to cause damage, and has made amends for the damages he caused. However, now that he can control his fantastic abilities, he wants to use it to protect the police and people of Brooklyn, asking very little in return. I'm not turning away an offer like that because certain people want to sensationalize the past rather than look at the facts."
There was a long silence and then the newscaster cleared his throat. "And that ladies and gentlemen is The Chief of Brooklyn's finest on their new hire, so called -"
Jim reached out and switched off the radio. In his short life amongst men, he'd too often heard the stubborn anger of the newscaster, and not just directed at him. People wanted to hate and would not let reason stand in their way. Better to stop listening now than spend the evening upset. He would need all his composure for his first day of work tomorrow.
He'd already heard several churches and other organizations planned to protest outside the precinct, and he already guessed the more people were going to call him Officer Monster than Officer Hammond.
But he would be doing the job he wanted to do and clung to that knowledge and the memory of Chief Wilson smiling at him just as he would smile at any other human being.
Author ani_bester
Rating G
Characters Jim Hammond, Chief Wilson
Word Count 1,665
Warnings NA
Notes So no secret I'm fascinated by Jim Hammond. I've always been by androids (blame Data), and I find it awesome that he got on the Police force, but I'm also interested in how he managed that given they weren't exactly handing jobs at the time.
Summery Jim wants very much to be a police officer, but there's a few sacrifices he needs to make, especially concerning is dignity.
The small office at the under funded police force had been able to spare for Chief Wilson amplified the heat of sweltering New York afternoon. Around him, Jim could sense the varying temperatures, the higher heat of the metal cabinet, the coolness around the Chief's small plant. What he watched though, was a bead of sweat form Chief Wilson's forehead. Jim observed as it rolled down the side of Chief Wilson's temple until The Chief raised his hand and wiped it away. Like humans, Jim could fee the breeze caused by the rickety ceiling fan that whirled over his head. He could not though, sweat. So Jim watched the perspiration on Chief Wilson's brow in silent fascination.
"Son, I need an answer." The Chief's voice drew Jim's attention away from the mysteries of humanity and back to his current plight caused by an even bigger human mystery: irrational hate.
Leaning back in the wooden chair, Jim watched the ceiling fan make it's slow revolutions as he spun the offer around in his head. After another few seconds, when he heard Chief Wilson begin to tap his finger on the desk, Jim looked back at him.
"It is not ideal," he murmured, trying his best to keep his expression polite.
To his surprise, The Chief's gaze softened and he nodded to Jim.
"I know," The Chief answered.
Jim tilted his head to the side and took a few seconds to process the unexpected reaction. He'd expected to see the Chief's expression harden; his lips turn downward, and perhaps his face darken and contort in the way Jim had come to fear. He expected to hear some variation on 'what else should a machine expect.' Instead, the Chief of Police looked at him the way Jim had seen others look at the less fortunate when they wanted to help but could not.
"Pardon," Jim said.
The Chief shook his head. "You seem like a nice fellow, no matter how you were born, and I'd be more than happy to hire you, but the brass doesn't see it like that. I don't like it one bit, but it's all I have to offer. If you're insulted, well, I can't blame you."
Jim nodded. "I- thank you," he said. Warmth filled his chest and he found it took no effort to smile. "I suppose it's not an ideal world is it," Jim sighed. "Thank you so much for fighting for me in this Sir. I'll accept the offer. When would I start?"
Chief Wilson grinned back at him, and Jim found he very much enjoyed this man's smile. "Well the silver lining to all this, son, is that you don't need to go through the academy, as you are not being hired. I do need to be sure you know procedures and the law. Granted, you did do your studying before coming up here. Still though, I'll get you some lesson books, and handouts, and some tests, and we'll try to get you set up within the next two weeks to a month, depending how fast you can pass all the tests."
Jim felt his heart rate quicken at the unexpected swiftness with which he'd be allowed to join the Brooklyn police. "Thank you sir, thank you so much," He reached for Chief Wilson's hand and gasped it with both of his, shaking it in the enthusiastic manner, he'd observed other man shake hands when a deal had gone unexpectedly well.
"You're more than welcome, Officer Hammond."
The single room apartment the police force had given to Jim still seemed too barren to him. In an attempt to add personality to his living space, he'd brought in a variety of found plants, each potted with car in discarded crates and boxes he'd found. He had also put up some of his own rather mundane attempts at artwork. He looked around the room, holding up a new painting, something he'd bought from a local, and much better, art student he's seen sketching one day while on parole. The painting, of a boy cooking with his mother, was extraordinary and Jim felt his own work looked crude in comparison. He found though, that he didn't want to take his art all down, but clearly the art student's should be the centerpiece.
Jim went over to the radio that sat on a nightstand next to the bed Jim had bought purely to stop questions about a bed's absence. Flipping on the radio, Jim felt better as the quick syncopated beats of Jazz filled his apartment and seemed to warm the room in a way Jim didn't think made sense, but none the less seemed to happen.
Moving to the rhythm of the music, Jim began to arrange his paintings in different ways, trying to decide which he liked best, and wondering if he should call Officer Dean for assistance. Numerous publications suggested women were better at decorating a room than men, though Jim didn't know why that would be. Then again, Jim wasn't sure he qualified as either a woman or a man, so perhaps is judgment would not be flawed in the way the same publications suggested a man's judgment could be. Having never had his decorative skills critized, except for the absence of a bed, Jim decided to trust his own judgment.
It took until the news came on at 7:00 for Jim to decide on an arrangement for his paintings. He'd spent much longer than he'd meant to though, and it was past time to water the plants. He kept the radio on, ignoring the drone of the newscaster as he poured water into the wildflowers he'd picked from empty lots. A sudden familiar voice however, ripped his attention from the plants.
"I don't think the public fully understands the benefits." It was Chief Wilson's voice, and he sounded irritable, like a man speaking to a sullen child.
"I think the public sees a job given to a machine, or a monster as some argue, that could have gone to a red-blooded American trying to support a family. In fact-"
Jim frowned at the phrase. He'd never understood why people made note of an American's blood color. None of the recording he'd listen too while sealed in his concrete tomb had suggested human blood varied in color due to place of origin.
Jim's attention was drawn back to the report as Chief Wilson answered a comment by making a noise that sounded as though he'd exhaled quickly through his nose. "Find me a man who can support his family on a so called job that's not paying him anything, and then yes, we did take that position from him. I just didn't think that many people wanted to risk their lives for a job that paid nothing."
"So you deny paying it?"
Jim winced.
"I don't deny anything. It's a matter of public record that Officer Hammond is not on payroll. The agreement we reached is that the police would purchase him for a specified fee each month; a fee which is enough to keep him housed and clothed, but wouldn't serve an actual human being very well, and certainly not a family man."
Jim closed his eyes and tried to fight the odd sick feeling inside. He worked through it, wondering if this was anger or humiliation.
"Perhaps both," he murmured to himself.
The agreement had been hard to stomach. Being told he'd be purchased like a police dog at best, a simple handgun at worst, had been humiliating enough without the whole city knowing of the agreement. Then again, if knowing kept people from demanding he be removed, or put into concrete again, then he would learn to tolerate this, even if he doubted he would ever like it.
"Given the devastation it caused, do you think the city can truly trust Horton's Monster? Are people really going to want Officer Monster protecting them?"
Hearing what the news still insisted on calling him, Jim felt his cheeks burn. The sudden desire to do the damage the newscaster feared willed up from deep in Jim's chest. He took deep breath, feeling first shame, than justification. He reminded himself of the curses and dark looks he's seen on the faces of those the news also marginalized. The anger flooding though him was not an improper response.
"First, we're calling him Jim, Jim Hammond. Officer Hammond just rolls off the tongue better than Officer Monster."
Jim felt his lips twitch at that.
"Second, the so called "rampages" you enjoy hyping up were nothing more than a scared person with a power he couldn’t control. He never intended to cause damage, and has made amends for the damages he caused. However, now that he can control his fantastic abilities, he wants to use it to protect the police and people of Brooklyn, asking very little in return. I'm not turning away an offer like that because certain people want to sensationalize the past rather than look at the facts."
There was a long silence and then the newscaster cleared his throat. "And that ladies and gentlemen is The Chief of Brooklyn's finest on their new hire, so called -"
Jim reached out and switched off the radio. In his short life amongst men, he'd too often heard the stubborn anger of the newscaster, and not just directed at him. People wanted to hate and would not let reason stand in their way. Better to stop listening now than spend the evening upset. He would need all his composure for his first day of work tomorrow.
He'd already heard several churches and other organizations planned to protest outside the precinct, and he already guessed the more people were going to call him Officer Monster than Officer Hammond.
But he would be doing the job he wanted to do and clung to that knowledge and the memory of Chief Wilson smiling at him just as he would smile at any other human being.