goddamngrenades | OPEN POST

"That's me." Emoting is difficult without a face or a concept of a face of his own so- fingerguns. "Why don't we get some aspirin and fruit in you? Mess hall will be opening in T minus five."

The nursing staff and Director don't seem to have questions for York, which is better for him. Something about the Director sets the AI on edge but. Grin and bear it.

The gesture makes Wash snort and shake his head. It's ridiculous, but also very human. He can appreciate that. "Mmmm, fruit sounds good. Aspirin sounds better." He's glad that his appetite doesn't seem to have been killed. Some of the earlier stuff they did to him, the upgraded implants, some enhancements to make him suitable for using the armour, had left him dog sick.

"Aspirin's on the side table, fruit's in the mess. If we hurry we'll get there before Maine eats all the good apples." Paging back through annoyed memories and cross referencing them with security footage is okay, right? Right. Cuz he's totally doing that. "Also they'll be happy to see that we're getting along."

"'kay," he says. There is a gross taste in his mouth. But that's easily solved. He grabs the aspirin and downs them along with the glass of water. He's pretty sure that the glass along the side is actually a viewing window and since it's super obvious, he doesn't know why they bother pretending otherwise.

He pushes himself to his feet then, stretching out the stiffness from his limbs.

"Maine always goes for the good stuff. I swear he has a sixth sense for it."

"He's got a notification set up for when we get shipments of fresh fruit and a hookup on the mess staff." Easy as anything to pick through the system and find this shit, seriously. FLISS get on his level.

"Oh- hey that feels." Weird. York flickers a bit, adjusting the compression gen again to settle more comfortably across Wash's shoulders. "There you go."

"...can you set one up for me?" he asks. He doesn't mind sharing the apples with Maine, but fresh fruit is a coveted supply and there's never enough for his tastes.

He shifts a little, but feels the gel layer of his suit settle more comfortably around him. He hadn't even realised it hadn't been sitting right. "Thanks! Do you offer room service too? Because I tell you, the pillows are not great."

"Already done." Who's good at their job? York's good at his job. "...You could just, I dunno, flirt with the guy that does your linens? Or put in a requisitions request."

Which York does, by the way. With a winky face because that's how he, and by proxy Wash, now rolls.

He's doing all these things and Wash hasn't even got out of the medbay yet! He's not sure what to make of it still, but at least it's good stuff. No sign of the impending AI takeover and the enslavement of humanity. Not yet anyway.

"I'm not flirting with anyone just to get a new pillow."

"Smile at him then. Flex a little next time you see him? That's how Maine gets the fruit." The alleged hookup. Something something eyecandy something. "Humans are strange, man."

"You might have noticed that I am definitely not Maine. There is nothing I could flex that would be half as impressive." Because Maine is a giant and could bench press Wash in full armour without breaking a sweat. "I don't think you have room to talk about being strange."

"Yeah but you got a bubble butt." That is, apparently, a thing. York checked the curvature against several acceptable examples of the same and nods to himself. "Maine's got more of a pancake thing going, if the scuttlebutt's honest."

"Is this what's gonna happen now?" he asks, giving the hologram a sceptical look. "The calculations you'll be running aren't going to be about how good the butts of my teammates look! We have to be ready for combat and... and stuff."

"Hey, you asked how to get a better pillow, I am pointing out the assets on hand." Don't laugh, don't laugh, ok he doesn't laugh but there's a warm wash of amusement through the neural lace. "Just be'n a bro, dude."

Wash scowls, but it's hard to keep it up when York is laughing and he can feel it right through him, all shivery and golden and it feels nice. "Do you even care about how people look? Or sex? I mean... you're an AI."

"Uh..." The hologram flickers again, amusement twisting to curiosity. "I don't know? I haven't really thought about it. I'm like. Five days old if that. Probably less? Telling time is hard in storage."

Which means thinking about where he came from or how he got here and why he has a state designation instead of a Greek letter and- curiosity tangles, snarls, twists into anxiety that he quickly locks down in favor of a dick joke. "Fleshy bits all look the same to me."

He can feel that too, a warm curl of curiosity that makes him want to know everything. He'd kind of figured he'd be the last to get an Ai so maybe he hadn't paid as much attention as he should in class. "I'm- not sure how to feel about that." He knows Ais aren't like people, but five days old is very young and is there going to be a creep factor when he has ah... personal time in his bunk?

"Ok- no dude. There's a bro code. I don't know much but I know that personal time is, you know, personal, and I'm not gonna be anywhere near your neural lace when you're doing that." There's a brief shudder that may or may not be mortification or revulsion or-

Whatever doesn't matter MOVING ON.

"Tell me to retire and I'll just curl up in my chip and play Sudoku or something."

"Alright. That's workable." He doesn't want to feel like someone is watching him, but Christ he's in his twenties. There's no way he can give up jerking off. Boot camp had been torture.

"That doesn't sound very fun. Wouldn't you need super complicated ones?"

"I run 42 games simultaneously in an interconnected fractal pattern." A beat. "You know, kid stuff."

"Wow. Now I feel inadequate." He has trouble doing a normal sudoku.

"My brain is a computer, I'm supposed to be good with numbers and shit. I'm a Digital American. It's kind of my thing. You, now-" Uh, shit, what's he good at? York scans through a history of training videos in .025 seconds. "are one of the best mid range combatants in the project."

"You've never been to America," Wash points out. "Neither have I." Hasn't been to Earth for that matter. Maybe he should go if he survives the war. If Earth survives the war.

He flushes a little with pride at that. His place on the leaderboard has held steady for months, and the others still seem to think he's the rookie who isn't good enough.

"Sure I have." Wait- no. No he hasn't. "It's in the blood. The. Code."

He shouldn't have blood, he's all code. Right? Right. But there's this odd twist of wistfulness, an ache for deep fried oreos that blindides him enough to stutter out for half a second before blipping back where he should be. Supporting his dude.

His number one guy. "Fuck yeah you're awesome. WE are awesome, and we're gonna climb that leaderboard."

"I- I don't think code works like that?" But what does he know? He is a soldier not a scientist. AI theory is so far beyond him it's painful.

He finds himself licking his lips at the sudden craving for candy, crunchy cookies, a heart attack on a plate. Which is something he is not going to get until shore leave considering the restrictions of their diets here.

"Yeah, I can't wait to give Carolina more excuses to kick my ass. Or make South hate me."

"Don't engage her in hand to hand- and don't engage South period." Easiest way ever. But he does flip through memories of past failures to land a hit and the on board data archive to start compiling a list of things they could work on.

Ways to improve.

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