trans_9 | Testing Boundaries [ Open ]

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Testing Boundaries [ Open ]

The Sensorium...of all the various strange and bewildering places she'd found aboard this madhouse, it had proved to be the most interesting. It was like an old science fiction movie, one of the improbable ones that gathered a cult following and generated money for greedy toymakers. It was like being plugged into the Net again, almost, with the freedom and power to change the world around her at command, and after only a few hours in the hollow, Netless silence, it was blessing to have something to take the edge off. Unprofessional, that, but still reassuring to have something so utterly human inflicted on her.

The Major had spent a few hours sifting through the available simulations and programs. Heavy-arms training runs, adventurous little role-playing games, even a few tactical simulations. Mostly it was just fluff, or half-finished or any of dozens of things that were little else but dry educational or pure entertainment in value.

So, what else could she do but program her own?

'Begin with what you know,' ran the old adage, and so she had. The city spread out before her was dark, tinted glass made inky black with night time and reflected neon and streetlights like a spectrum of eyes from every corner. This wasn't exactly accurate, as a simulation; Tokyo had never had as Jiggabachi helicopters or powered exoskeleton-toting soldiers wandering it's streets and skyways. Perhaps it had as many criminals, but they weren't so blatant. Then again, the point of this exercise wasn't realism, was it? Nostagia made these lacks seem obvious, maybe, but as Motoko stood on the edge of a flat-topped roof at what she'd deemed the "beginning" of the course, she decided it would do for a testing ground. Varied landscape and opponents would be a good measure of her teammates skill— among other things. Damned if she was going to go haring off anywhere with nothing but a blind knowledge of her teammates and hopeful wishes.

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'If you can't live with the world the way it is, then change it yourself,' she'd once told a criminal of the caliber she was currently describing. It seemed that this was the kind of person who'd do that without needing to be told. He argued with that same transcendent surety Daisuke had spoken to her with, once upon a time.

"The Net is..." Motoko paused momentarily, fighting past half a dozen easy metaphors, "It's everywhere and everyone, all at once, like a thousand voices in the back of your head. Most people have some kind of access. For that reason, the most common voluntary prosthetics are eye implants or replacements. For someone like me, a full-body Cyborg, it's not something I'm often cut off from."

Picard felt a cold sweat suddenly drip down his back. "Like some kind of ... hive communication?" he asked, calming himself as much as he could. "I ... have a little experience with that, myself."

"You could describe it that way," Motoko mused, tone as mild as if speaking of the weather, "But that's not really the best metaphor. It's more like listening to a billion idiots voicing their opinions at the top of their lungs. The pulse of humanity. What kind of net are you talking about?"

"Several years ago, I was assimilated by a race of cybernetic parasitic creatures known as the Borg. I was linked into their hive mind, and their cybernetics were implanted throughout my body. My knowledge was taken, imparted into the Borg Collective, and used to annihilate a fleet of Federation starships. Eventually, however, I was rescued by my crew, and with my link to the Borg, we were able to destroy the vessel before it could reach Earth." Picard spoke earnestly, honestly, but there was a rehearsed tone to the words, as if he were trying to avoid actually speaking of what happened to himself.

"I see." Motoko deadpanned, softly, crossing her arms as she watched the play of emotions across his expression, "I imagine it must have been fairly traumatic. Being hacked isn't exactly fun, for anyone."

"I had a rare sort of luck. My crew had enough ingenuity and good fortune on their side to pull me out from that Collective. However, many of the implants they placed in my central nervous system could not be removed. It means I still hear their communications, still hear their whispers across local subspace when they're in range." He sighed and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it and setting it to his lips.

"About the only real thing I can be grateful for on this damned mission is the silence."

Edited 2009-09-05 04:53 (UTC)

"Nothing but silence and your own ghost," she murmured. Strange world, where they could put implants in, but not take them out again.

"By my standards, that kind of technology is worthlessly crude," Motoko finally replied. A blunt statement, and really quite rude, given the delicate nature of the conversation, but there it was, "A system that hooks it's users and doesn't let go is harmful, no matter how wonderful they might think it is."

"Miss, we're talking about an alien race that doesn't want its drones to leave the Collective. The implants are made to be as irremovable as possible. Federation neurotechnology isn't advanced enough to remove the implants the Borg put in. There are no individuals in the Borg. No free will. No desire. Just logic, assimilation, and the cold comfort of the collective."

Red eyes flicked away and back. Motoko didn't reply. She hadn't been talking about that, not exactly, but the urgency in his tone brought to mind half a dozen things to say, none of which had an bearing. Standalone complexes...

She let the silence stretch, just looking at one another.

"You survived," The Major reminded him, drily, "Which means that no matter how else you were inhibited, they couldn't penetrate your ghost. It shows a lack of technique that is both ridiculous and pointless in a group of people claiming such intimate knowledge of human physiology. It's pure arrogance."

Another moment of silence, staring with steel in her gaze at a fixed point half a foot in front of her face, "I know what it's like to survive bodiless on the net, so while I understand what that kind of depersonalization is like, for me it represents an entirely separate level of hell than your own."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by 'my ghost', unless you're referring to the paranormal concept of it, which I am willing enough to accept, given the circumstances."

"No."

A pause, this was more than she honestly wanted to talk about. This wasn't just a discussion, anymore, this was almost a contest. A battle of wills, and opinions. Motoko's philosophy rose to her lips with a will of it's own, "Physically, I'm no longer human; anything biological was either destroyed or deteriorated long ago. There are countless ingredients that make up the human body and mind, like all the components that make up me as an individual with my own personality. I have a face and voice to distinguish myself from others, but they're only simulations. You can strip everything away from someone, every memory and thought and physicality, but the part where your mind stops being 'yours' and starts being 'you,' is the line between life and death, mankind and machine. It's what's commonly referred to as a 'ghost,' and it's everything that makes you human."

Picard smirked at that. "I'd be considering you a human regardless of your origins. One of my ship's best crewmen, and one of my best friends, was an android. Biology doesn't determine humanity, or else the Borg might actually be worthwhile as a race. Data taught me that better than anyone."

He really wasn't listening, was he? Had her entire point gone straight over his head, or was he simply trying to lighten the tone?

"From your perspective, they're monsters," She reasoned, "But at some point, they must have decided that their goals were worthwhile. To them, you're the monster, probably for the same reasons you see yourself as otherwise. Synced AI sentients are the same way; they view individuality as an aberration rather than the norm, because that's the way they came into existence."

"A monster? Quite the opposite. I resisted the entire time. The Borg Queen wanted to make me an individual again. An individual in the Borg, serving as her counterpart. She craved my individuality, but my resistance forced her to turn me into a drone. The Collective for the most part, however, don't view individuals as monsters. They're simply irrelevant. They are monsters. They don't grow. They don't build or create. They take from other cultures, other planets, until nothing is left. They incorporate, and then move on. They're a parasite, and one that could wipe out all life in the galaxy if not dealt with."

"We could probably argue theory all day..."

That bored tone had made a return, speaking as if to flick away the conversation like wet hair in her eyes. Motoko was aggressively blank-faced, "But since I've never experienced the topic in question, we'll never come to any worthwhile conclusion. Is there anything you came here to ask me, specifically?"

"We could certainly argue theory all day," Picard replied, "and it would get us nowhere. All I speak from is my own direct knowledge of the Borg." Her question drew a chuckle from the captain, however, and he turned to regard her, his expression admittedly mischievous.

"No, no questions specifically. I'm curious, was this intended as a training exercise of some sort? All I see down below are armored soldiers and walking tanks."

"There's a hell of a lot more down there than just death," Motoko retorted, mildly jibing, "It's a test. People always react differently to danger, and if I'm going to be going into the unknown with anyone, I need to know if they're going to go all star-struck and wander into the field of fire."

She didn't add that training for herself would only decrease her abilities over time; but then that was trade-off, wasn't it? You gave up a lot for the boon of full-body prosthesis, and one of those was the natural healing a biological body provided. For most people, it never crossed their minds that low-income cyborgs tended to have half the lifespan they ought to. It's all fun and games until someone overheats themselves to death.

"Well, you don't spend as long in Starfleet as I have without being able to handle yourself in the unpleasant times where combat is required." Picard set his hand over his ribs, under the jacket. He could feel the cold steel of the revolver in his hand, and while he considered projectile weapons to be generally crude instruments, he had to admit that they were also powerful and effective. Even with a phaser at his hip, he could feel a bit of comfort, knowing he had the pistol if he needed it.

"Is there a goal?"

"There are many goals," She sighed, watching a little more closely now, "It is Tokyo. I can't expect a great deal from whichever poor sap's been stuck on my team, so all I'm really looking for is to know who's going to stick their foot in it, more than anything else. Take him for example."

A slight jerk of her chin at a figure running the streets below. He was a grimy, furtive individual, carrying something under his arm and doing his best to hide in the shadows; an effect that was ruined by their vantage point.

"He's up to no good...probably armed, could be he's some kind of smuggler," She mused, "Or maybe he's an informant. If he's a cyborg, he won't react to injuries the same way someone completely natural would. You have to consider that he could just as easily be some kind of victim, or just a scared guy in the wrong place. Make the wrong decision, and you've got blood on your hands. Technically, you've got blood on your hands no matter what you do, but a good portion of this job is making sure you minimize the damage, and only kill when the situation requires it."

She paused, considering Picard and his jacket and his gun, the blue smoke still drifting from his lit cigarette, "Which is depressingly often, if you're wondering."

Picard stood up, stripping the jacket and holster from his body, setting them aside. Underneath, oddly enough, he seemed to be wearing his usual Starfleet uniform, complete with Captain's pips on collar. "Cover me, then, would you?" he asked, approaching the side of the building. Fire escape. Good.

"Computer, phaser rifle, standard Enterprise issue," he intoned, gripping the futuristic weapon in hand as leaped down on to the first platform. He didn't really have time to climb down the stairs, so he made due with climbing the railing, leaping down one level to the next until he hit the ground. He was thankful that his experiences with the Borg and the Baku world had put him back in such peak condition for his age.

He was about to call for the shadowed figure to halt when another noise was brought to his attention. Walking battle tanks, while new to Picard, weren't wholly unexpected(since he had observed them from the roof). A quick roll behind a dumpster protected him from the first volley of rounds, and a few lucky strays that pierced the side of the large metal bin.

"Depressingly often?" he asked himself. "Let's find out." A quick readjustment to his rifle was all he needed. Picard aimed up over the top of the dumpster instead of the side, figuring the driver of the tank would be expecting that. Rather than fire a pulse, he aimed a piercing beam at the weird gun-arms the tank had, taking off on foot down the narrow alleyway after the figure. It could be something, or it could be a red herring. At the very least, Picard knew enough to know it was suspicious, and for Dixon Hill, Private Investigator, that was good enough for him.

Motoko sighed as Jigabachis whirled and centered on the dying explosion. Was subtlety something other worlds simply didn't have, or was it just that she was the only one who'd been brought here that had any? Whatever the reason, she initiated her thermoptics with a tell-tale hiss and dropped off the roof to observe Picard's method. If this man was supposed to be her commander, it couldn't hurt to see him in action.

Meanwhile, Picard was closing on the 'suspect.' A chain-link fence had blocked his path, and he was in the process of climbing it when the Captain came upon his position. A dirty sort of person, all filthy rags and more smudged hat than sense, he was awkwardly trying to scale the barrier without letting go of the package he carried, and it was slowing his progress considerably.

Picard believed in diplomacy and subtlety both, but he knew from speaking with Motoko that she could handle the subtle end of combat. Someone had to catch the suspicious figure, and the Major had presented herself more as a support type to the Captain. That was fine enough for him, he needed the exercise anyway. "Halt!" he shouted at the fleeing figure, holding the rifle in one hand and drawing his hand phaser with the other.

With the weapon aimed at the figure, he decided to see now if the figure would stop. If not, he was curious if a phaser on stun could stun a cyborg from this kind of world.

The figure froze, turning only his head to look at Jean-Luc with one panicky eye. He dropped and turned to face his attacker, holding out one shaking hand as if to ward Picard away. It was a boy— only a child by nearly any standard, clutching a filthy cardboard box as if it were all the crown jewels of England rolled into one.

"Stay back!" the boy screeched, pressing his back against the corner between wall and fence, "Get away from me! It's mine! You can't have it, I found it, it's mine!"

That wasn't expected. "Look, just calm down. No one's going to hurt you." He released the phaser rifle, letting it hang by its strap across his chest. He lowered the hand phaser, too, but he didn't holster it, not with walking tanks, armored soldiers, and attack helicopters flying overhead.

"We got off on the wrong foot. I'm Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Do you have a name?" Hologram or no, it was an excellent simulation of a frightened child. Sometimes, however, the realism of holodecks and the Sensoriums got even to him.

"Get away!" The boy shouted again, making an angry, sweeping motion with his hand. He was wearing tatty gray gloves that had probably been some other color once, and they flapped distractingly with the motion. A slight crouch now, cringing away, and the boy reached into the box, as if to check the contents and make sure they were undisturbed, "People like you— Whaddaya wanna chase me for?! Leave me alone!"

Testing Boundaries [ Open ]

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