Fic post: Pure Logic (Generation Kill)
Title: Pure Logic
Word count: 1358
Summary: Ray the robot Marine.
Notes:
derryderrydown is wonderful and gets full credit for Ray's robot name and also for being the bestest. This fic originally started as a tiny commentfic for
thefourthvine, and then I made it a bit bigger. Not much bigger, no one get excited! But a bit bigger. (And I've been talking with
derryderrydown about the 50k magnum opus it OUGHT to be. So, uh. Maybe someday?
Mild warning for casual derogatory language.
Also available at the AO3.
“Hey, Reporter,” Ray says. “Hey, Reporter, want to do an exposé on robots’ rights in the Marines? That sounds like the kind of shit Rolling Stoners would eat up, right? And I tell you, I have some very serious, very personal stories about how much shit we machines get.”
“Really?” Reporter says. Brad snorts. The Reporter’s tone has changed over the last few days, from wide-eyed interest in everything Ray says to a slightly wary cadence.
“Yep, really,” Ray says. “Did you know, they didn’t even give me a name for a couple of weeks?”
“Oh, that’s-” Reporter says, like a proper bleeding-heart, but Brad interrupts.
“You arrived three days before we were due to ship to Afghanistan, retard, and you were the shittiest robot a platoon has ever been saddled with.” He turns his head a little to keep an eye on Trombley’s face. He doesn’t want this conversation to go as badly as the last time Ray mentioned robots’ rights.
Ray grins proudly. “I didn’t even have Dari installed,” he tells Reporter. “And they wanted a 432.”
“You’re a 430, right?” Reporter says.
“Yep. Rudy’s a 432. You see where it all went wrong? Poor Bradley ordered firepower and got communications.”
“Not even useful communications,” Brad says. “You were supposed to be hearts-and-minds, not radios. I had an RTO.” Trombley looks like he’s going to keep his mouth shut, so Brad turns away again.
Ray’s grin widens. “Not as good as me, Brad, not as good as your Ray-Ray. Go on, admit it. Admit it!” He looks back at Reporter. “He’s never going to admit it.”
“I can see that,” Reporter says.
“I got a name eventually. Chose it myself, got bored of waiting for these fucking idiots. Ray’s short for Deathray. They wouldn’t let me put that on the paperwork, though.”
“You, uh.”
Brad’s pretty sure he knows what Reporter is looking uncomfortable about here. “Yeah,” he says. “He chose all of it.”
“Right. All of it.”
“I am subtle like a motherfucker, Reporter,” Ray says. “It’s the ninja-est surname ever.”
“It’s a bold statement,” Reporter says, blandly.
“Fuck yes, a bold statement about me and my robot brethren. I am all about the bold statements, Reporter. Want some more?”
“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says.
“What, no, this is a great conversation, Brad! Here’s one, Reporter: the sooner robots are unquestioningly seen as people, the sooner I can start fucking my way through the human population without having to present a property manifest, and that day will be a great day.”
“Robots shouldn’t fuck humans.” Trombley finally joins the conversation.
Brad sighs and shakes his shoulders out. “Shut up, Trombley.”
“Oh, we really should, Trombley, you want me to demonstrate why I’m so expensive?”
“Shut up, Ray.”
***
"Hey, Colbert," Ray says quietly a few hours later. It's the middle of the night, and Trombley and Reporter are talking in the back of the humvee, loud enough that it actually feels a little private in the two front seats. Brad glances over.
"Yeah?"
"Next stop, I'm gonna have to - can you give me a hand with my innards? Fucking sand again, something's stuck just under my backplate array."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Ray, we just did this two days ago." Brad doesn't bother to inject any real irritation into his voice, though, and he knows Ray takes it for the agreement it is when he makes a kissyface over at Brad.
***
When everything's as it should be, all graves dug, Brad finds Ray lounging inside the humvee, feet on the dash. "Ready, sergeant?" he asks, looking up at Brad. "Here, I've got the stuff." There's a small bottle of cleaning fluid on the seat beside him, along with a rag and a toothbrush.
"Okay," Brad says, and looks at Ray again. "Shift around, then."
“It shouldn’t take long,” Ray says as he turns so that his back is to the open door, his feet tucked into the seatwell. “I can feel it, something’s caught in the synthetic actualiser. You know where that is, right?”
“Yes, Ray, I did pass my basic robotics training, thank you.”
“Okay then.” He looks over his shoulder at Brad, dark eyes bright in the moonlight and mouth flat, and says like he always does, "You'll definitely switch me on again, right?"
And Brad says like he always does, "Yeah, probably," and punches Ray's shoulder gently.
"Right. Go ahead." Ray pulls his shirt off and bows his head down to his chest in one practised movement. His back is tense.
Brad runs his hands down over Ray's shoulders, as carefully as he can, looking for the release catch that hides in the bump of his spine. Ray's skin is very soft here. He finds the button, and presses it, and hears the familiar low whine as Ray's machinery powers down and his body slumps. The panel on his back swings slowly open to show an array of metal and wires, silver-shiny in the moonlight.
Brad picks up the toothbrush and the rag, and starts to clean.
***
“So Reporter,” Ray says. “About those robots’ rights and all the hot human chicks I want to bang.”
Brad closes his eyes for half a second, and then goes back to scanning the horizon. Fuck Ray, anyway, he can rescue himself from his own stupidity when Trombley tries to deactivate him in his sleep.
“Corporal Person is a sexbot,” Trombley says, with a heavy patina of disgust.
“I actually,” Reporter says hastily, before Ray can respond, “uh, wanted to ask about that.”
“Oh did you,” Ray says, a satisfied smirk in his voice. “What kind of fucking prurient curiosity is this? Take a look, Brad, this shill of the liberal media is just as obsessed with my sexparts as any babykilling psycho jarhead.”
“Yeah,” Brad says.
“Go on, Reporter, ask your filthy fucking questions.”
“So, uh, you mentioned having sex with humans. The military’s issued you with genitalia?” To the Reporter’s credit, the question is delivered calmly, even with Trombley presumably glowering like a serial killer on one side of him and Ray definitely cackling like a crazy person. Brad shakes his head.
“Oh, Reporter, you didn’t think I was military issue, did you?”
“Yes?” Reporter says uncertainly. Brad snorts. “You’re not?”
“XS430s are repurposed civilian units,” Brad says, before Ray can unleash whatever bullshit he’s planning to feed the guy. “You probably know them better as EZ 500s.”
“Sexbots,” Trombley murmurs, quietly and viciously.
“Oh,” Reporter says. “Uh. Why?”
“Well, Rolling Stone,” Ray says. “Back in the day, Allenstone Robots realised that they had spent a whole hell of a lot of money and effort creating these suave, sophisticated sextoys, and that not that many creepy bastards had the kind of dough necessary to purchase them. People who buy sexbots generally live in their parents’ basement, you see, and that’s not the kind of career path that brings in millions. So Allenstone decided to market them to the military as well as to the civilian market, because they had giant dollar signs dancing in front of their eyes.” Brad glances across at him, and their eyes meet. Ray looks away after a second. “And that’s the sordid tale of my birth,” he says, voice blandly cheerful.
“Right,” Reporter says, in a way that very clearly signals that more questions are coming.
Brad clenches and relaxes his fist to stretch out the fingers, and says, “It’s pretty simple, Reporter. A lot of the stuff they put on EZ 500s is valuable in certain kinds of combat situations - body language recognition and negotiation skills and highly-developed situation analysis. It only takes a tweak of programming to produce an XS430 instead of an EZ 500. And any more questions you have about this you can direct to Rudy and Ray’s respective manufacturers, because no one tells us anything.”
“Yep,” Ray agrees chirpily, and probably only Brad notices, out of the corner of his eye, the way Ray’s shoulders have relaxed. “Fuck, Reporter, I totally didn’t know I was a robot until two weeks ago. I got shot, right?”
Brad tunes him out as the bullshit story trails on.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://surexit.dreamwidth.org/56177.html with
comments. Comment wherever you like.
Word count: 1358
Summary: Ray the robot Marine.
Notes:
derryderrydown is wonderful and gets full credit for Ray's robot name and also for being the bestest. This fic originally started as a tiny commentfic for
thefourthvine, and then I made it a bit bigger. Not much bigger, no one get excited! But a bit bigger. (And I've been talking with
derryderrydown about the 50k magnum opus it OUGHT to be. So, uh. Maybe someday?
Mild warning for casual derogatory language.
Also available at the AO3.
“Hey, Reporter,” Ray says. “Hey, Reporter, want to do an exposé on robots’ rights in the Marines? That sounds like the kind of shit Rolling Stoners would eat up, right? And I tell you, I have some very serious, very personal stories about how much shit we machines get.”
“Really?” Reporter says. Brad snorts. The Reporter’s tone has changed over the last few days, from wide-eyed interest in everything Ray says to a slightly wary cadence.
“Yep, really,” Ray says. “Did you know, they didn’t even give me a name for a couple of weeks?”
“Oh, that’s-” Reporter says, like a proper bleeding-heart, but Brad interrupts.
“You arrived three days before we were due to ship to Afghanistan, retard, and you were the shittiest robot a platoon has ever been saddled with.” He turns his head a little to keep an eye on Trombley’s face. He doesn’t want this conversation to go as badly as the last time Ray mentioned robots’ rights.
Ray grins proudly. “I didn’t even have Dari installed,” he tells Reporter. “And they wanted a 432.”
“You’re a 430, right?” Reporter says.
“Yep. Rudy’s a 432. You see where it all went wrong? Poor Bradley ordered firepower and got communications.”
“Not even useful communications,” Brad says. “You were supposed to be hearts-and-minds, not radios. I had an RTO.” Trombley looks like he’s going to keep his mouth shut, so Brad turns away again.
Ray’s grin widens. “Not as good as me, Brad, not as good as your Ray-Ray. Go on, admit it. Admit it!” He looks back at Reporter. “He’s never going to admit it.”
“I can see that,” Reporter says.
“I got a name eventually. Chose it myself, got bored of waiting for these fucking idiots. Ray’s short for Deathray. They wouldn’t let me put that on the paperwork, though.”
“You, uh.”
Brad’s pretty sure he knows what Reporter is looking uncomfortable about here. “Yeah,” he says. “He chose all of it.”
“Right. All of it.”
“I am subtle like a motherfucker, Reporter,” Ray says. “It’s the ninja-est surname ever.”
“It’s a bold statement,” Reporter says, blandly.
“Fuck yes, a bold statement about me and my robot brethren. I am all about the bold statements, Reporter. Want some more?”
“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says.
“What, no, this is a great conversation, Brad! Here’s one, Reporter: the sooner robots are unquestioningly seen as people, the sooner I can start fucking my way through the human population without having to present a property manifest, and that day will be a great day.”
“Robots shouldn’t fuck humans.” Trombley finally joins the conversation.
Brad sighs and shakes his shoulders out. “Shut up, Trombley.”
“Oh, we really should, Trombley, you want me to demonstrate why I’m so expensive?”
“Shut up, Ray.”
***
"Hey, Colbert," Ray says quietly a few hours later. It's the middle of the night, and Trombley and Reporter are talking in the back of the humvee, loud enough that it actually feels a little private in the two front seats. Brad glances over.
"Yeah?"
"Next stop, I'm gonna have to - can you give me a hand with my innards? Fucking sand again, something's stuck just under my backplate array."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Ray, we just did this two days ago." Brad doesn't bother to inject any real irritation into his voice, though, and he knows Ray takes it for the agreement it is when he makes a kissyface over at Brad.
***
When everything's as it should be, all graves dug, Brad finds Ray lounging inside the humvee, feet on the dash. "Ready, sergeant?" he asks, looking up at Brad. "Here, I've got the stuff." There's a small bottle of cleaning fluid on the seat beside him, along with a rag and a toothbrush.
"Okay," Brad says, and looks at Ray again. "Shift around, then."
“It shouldn’t take long,” Ray says as he turns so that his back is to the open door, his feet tucked into the seatwell. “I can feel it, something’s caught in the synthetic actualiser. You know where that is, right?”
“Yes, Ray, I did pass my basic robotics training, thank you.”
“Okay then.” He looks over his shoulder at Brad, dark eyes bright in the moonlight and mouth flat, and says like he always does, "You'll definitely switch me on again, right?"
And Brad says like he always does, "Yeah, probably," and punches Ray's shoulder gently.
"Right. Go ahead." Ray pulls his shirt off and bows his head down to his chest in one practised movement. His back is tense.
Brad runs his hands down over Ray's shoulders, as carefully as he can, looking for the release catch that hides in the bump of his spine. Ray's skin is very soft here. He finds the button, and presses it, and hears the familiar low whine as Ray's machinery powers down and his body slumps. The panel on his back swings slowly open to show an array of metal and wires, silver-shiny in the moonlight.
Brad picks up the toothbrush and the rag, and starts to clean.
***
“So Reporter,” Ray says. “About those robots’ rights and all the hot human chicks I want to bang.”
Brad closes his eyes for half a second, and then goes back to scanning the horizon. Fuck Ray, anyway, he can rescue himself from his own stupidity when Trombley tries to deactivate him in his sleep.
“Corporal Person is a sexbot,” Trombley says, with a heavy patina of disgust.
“I actually,” Reporter says hastily, before Ray can respond, “uh, wanted to ask about that.”
“Oh did you,” Ray says, a satisfied smirk in his voice. “What kind of fucking prurient curiosity is this? Take a look, Brad, this shill of the liberal media is just as obsessed with my sexparts as any babykilling psycho jarhead.”
“Yeah,” Brad says.
“Go on, Reporter, ask your filthy fucking questions.”
“So, uh, you mentioned having sex with humans. The military’s issued you with genitalia?” To the Reporter’s credit, the question is delivered calmly, even with Trombley presumably glowering like a serial killer on one side of him and Ray definitely cackling like a crazy person. Brad shakes his head.
“Oh, Reporter, you didn’t think I was military issue, did you?”
“Yes?” Reporter says uncertainly. Brad snorts. “You’re not?”
“XS430s are repurposed civilian units,” Brad says, before Ray can unleash whatever bullshit he’s planning to feed the guy. “You probably know them better as EZ 500s.”
“Sexbots,” Trombley murmurs, quietly and viciously.
“Oh,” Reporter says. “Uh. Why?”
“Well, Rolling Stone,” Ray says. “Back in the day, Allenstone Robots realised that they had spent a whole hell of a lot of money and effort creating these suave, sophisticated sextoys, and that not that many creepy bastards had the kind of dough necessary to purchase them. People who buy sexbots generally live in their parents’ basement, you see, and that’s not the kind of career path that brings in millions. So Allenstone decided to market them to the military as well as to the civilian market, because they had giant dollar signs dancing in front of their eyes.” Brad glances across at him, and their eyes meet. Ray looks away after a second. “And that’s the sordid tale of my birth,” he says, voice blandly cheerful.
“Right,” Reporter says, in a way that very clearly signals that more questions are coming.
Brad clenches and relaxes his fist to stretch out the fingers, and says, “It’s pretty simple, Reporter. A lot of the stuff they put on EZ 500s is valuable in certain kinds of combat situations - body language recognition and negotiation skills and highly-developed situation analysis. It only takes a tweak of programming to produce an XS430 instead of an EZ 500. And any more questions you have about this you can direct to Rudy and Ray’s respective manufacturers, because no one tells us anything.”
“Yep,” Ray agrees chirpily, and probably only Brad notices, out of the corner of his eye, the way Ray’s shoulders have relaxed. “Fuck, Reporter, I totally didn’t know I was a robot until two weeks ago. I got shot, right?”
Brad tunes him out as the bullshit story trails on.
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://surexit.dreamwidth.org/56177.html with
comments. Comment wherever you like.