Tyl Regor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
biochemastery) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reverienet2018-09-29 05:00 pm
biochemastery) wrote in reverienet2018-09-29 05:00 pm
Entry tags:
Video; un:tyl.regor
[Hello, network. It's Tyl, looming too close to his communicator again. He's been very nearly quiet since his arrival on Reverie, and now he's built up a head of steam for a ramble. Hope you're sitting comfortably, it might be a while.]
So. I've been slowly extracting information from this station's little brain. Asking about Delta Optima, resurrection, all sorts of things.
It doesn't know much. Says it doesn't, anyway. But what it did say was tantalizing: The station wasn't supposed to be able to fix dead people. Or drag them in from other dimensions either, it learned how to do all that after it murdered its crew.
Or maybe something else has lodged in its rusting conduits, running the show now. Dear little CIRSTA wouldn't say. I think she's holding out on me, though. Anyone feel like trying to charm her? Or just tear her open. I don't know enough about human computers to do it myself.
Oh, and--[He's forgotten what else he was going to pester the network about. Hmm.]--Ah! Right. Back on the subject of getting murdered. I was told this place tries to kill everyone constantly. No time to do anything, too busy fighting for your life. Sounded dire.
I've been here for more than twenty intervals and nothing's tried to kill me. Honestly, I'm disappointed. The worst I've had to suffer is a hangover. I've lowered my standards to account for this bucket's limitations, but I'm not that easy.
And on that final note, there is one thing. One very annoying thing. This gravity business. All of you have these. [He holds up one of the station-issued magnetic boots.] These things. Station left me a pair too. Wouldn't look dire on me. But.
[The boot drops with a clunk, and there's an odd series of whirs and mechanical clicking.]
I wasn't planning on being stolen away to a human station, light years, universes away from my collection.
[Regor holds something up. At first it might be hard to identify. It's the same gunmetal that accents his tight-fitting suit. It tapers into a long, curving metal strut, which he draws attention to.] These feet weren't made for one-third-G. Not made for spin gravity. They were designed for real gravity and good taste. [Yes, Regor has removed half of one of his legs, just to complain about it.]
I've got designs for walking feet. Ones that fit human boots. But got no parts to make them. Someone needs to fix that, because I am sick of scraping my head on the ceiling every time I want to go anywhere.
If you have the parts and the brains for cybernetics work, talk to me. Soon.
So. I've been slowly extracting information from this station's little brain. Asking about Delta Optima, resurrection, all sorts of things.
It doesn't know much. Says it doesn't, anyway. But what it did say was tantalizing: The station wasn't supposed to be able to fix dead people. Or drag them in from other dimensions either, it learned how to do all that after it murdered its crew.
Or maybe something else has lodged in its rusting conduits, running the show now. Dear little CIRSTA wouldn't say. I think she's holding out on me, though. Anyone feel like trying to charm her? Or just tear her open. I don't know enough about human computers to do it myself.
Oh, and--[He's forgotten what else he was going to pester the network about. Hmm.]--Ah! Right. Back on the subject of getting murdered. I was told this place tries to kill everyone constantly. No time to do anything, too busy fighting for your life. Sounded dire.
I've been here for more than twenty intervals and nothing's tried to kill me. Honestly, I'm disappointed. The worst I've had to suffer is a hangover. I've lowered my standards to account for this bucket's limitations, but I'm not that easy.
And on that final note, there is one thing. One very annoying thing. This gravity business. All of you have these. [He holds up one of the station-issued magnetic boots.] These things. Station left me a pair too. Wouldn't look dire on me. But.
[The boot drops with a clunk, and there's an odd series of whirs and mechanical clicking.]
I wasn't planning on being stolen away to a human station, light years, universes away from my collection.
[Regor holds something up. At first it might be hard to identify. It's the same gunmetal that accents his tight-fitting suit. It tapers into a long, curving metal strut, which he draws attention to.] These feet weren't made for one-third-G. Not made for spin gravity. They were designed for real gravity and good taste. [Yes, Regor has removed half of one of his legs, just to complain about it.]
I've got designs for walking feet. Ones that fit human boots. But got no parts to make them. Someone needs to fix that, because I am sick of scraping my head on the ceiling every time I want to go anywhere.
If you have the parts and the brains for cybernetics work, talk to me. Soon.
audio; un: alucard
Do not be so eager to perish. This month has been remarkably quiet, admittedly, but do not let it lull you to a false sense of security.
no subject
And it wouldn't have to be permanent, just a temporary disassembly! That's the thing about artificial parts. Much easier to put back together again.
[As to the other thing.] I'm not in a rush. No, not that, I've been stuck in one place with nothing to do. Lab here's not good enough, haven't got my data, my tubes. Can't save the Grineer without those. Trying to keep us from dying's my job. And I'm bored without it.
no subject
Get a hobby.
no subject
Wait. You mean sentient, not Sentient. Not that either. It said so. [Unless it was lying about that. Always a possibility. But if morals have to get dragged into this, he's not going to bother mentioning it.]
Already did. Only so much redecorating you can do before you run out of options. Especially when the station takes offence. [He hadn't tried prying open the walls since the first time, but he had been severely tempted.]
no subject
I am reluctant to believe that, but I admit that I do not know enough about AI to determine this either. Perhaps it's better left in the hands of other androids, AI, and the like rather than myself.
There are other things that you can do besides redecorating. [He sighs softly.] Are you some manner of medic? Based on what you said before.
no subject
[He's just going to ignore that statement of principle, and plow straight on to the more important subject: defending his honor against unfounded accusations of being a doctor.]
A scientist. [He's not some sawbones! Technically, though, he does saw bones on occasion. But only for good reasons.] Specialized in curing a disease no one's got here, except me. So hobbies aren't high on my to-do list.