"What does he want?"
The question rattled off his tongue and repeatedly around the inside of Fate's head as he scrolled through the less system-invasive responses from the other man. Was Robin just closer now than he'd been before? A local trip instead of code sent from planets away?
>>It says my brain is sexy.
>>To the ladies.
He couldn't ask outright why Robin had chosen today to get in close. That would end the game.
"Ropey. Right." One rust-colored eyebrow popped upward as a clearly accented response flitted through. Slang, but not the typical station jargon, not the kind of slang that poured accelerate over half the letters and left them behind to die in a blaze of their former glory. That was...refreshing, he decided.
>>Riding a velociraptor feels like it also may fall under that heading.
>>What with all the eating people tendencies the historians and dramatists go on about.
>>Unless you aren't people.
>>Then it's--
>>Are you people?
He was right...Fate did tend to type like he talked, unfiltered and open. And this was exactly why he tried not to engage with anyone other than machines or his agents--very few of whom he could call friends. It had the possibility of giving away weakness instead of surface sarcasm and amusement, and might clue a true, dangerous enemy into where to find him, and how to hurt them--him. He didn't think Robin was an enemy. Hadn't from the beginning, however annoying the upstart had been as he infected his workspace.
>>Only 5? How disappointing.
>>I could get whatever I want with enough time and effort.
>>But it'd be shady effort, if I wasn't paying fair.
>>Difference between thieving and fixing a problem.
Fate's research was turning up nothing of consequence. Robin was just too good at not being seen, as if he were flitting beside the world but not in it.
Which was impossible, if he was people.
Code seemed to come from quite close to his chest, though--and Fate could use that, wrap him in it, blind whatever sensors...
With the next message he got from Robin though, Fate noticed something wriggling through his connections. Sliding straight into the language grids, riffling through folders with little interest than just to move along. He followed it, absently checking the folders and blanching as filenames came back in ancient Greek, blinked then displayed in alien characters instead. Attempting to reset them made the code itself come out in French. And then put it on a loop.
He growled and chased the viral little nuisance, noting the triggers on his outbound keys kept rotating, useless.
He switched to chasing it through his implant interface, his eye twitching and blinking rapidly even as he typed to Robin with one hand and slid the cord into his neck with the other simultaneously.
>>Oh, this is cute.
>>You've given my circuits an LTD.
>>Language Transmitted Disorder.
>>I hope this is sending to you in cuneiform.
"And just in case it has," he added aloud, queuing a range of recording software to pick up the audio clip, "this is definitely effort and time. Not hard effort, just annoying effort. I keep having to change what language I'm typing commands in as to get it to bounce. So yeah. Cute. But not as cute as I can be."
Audio fired off in a flash.
It was more than cute. It was, to put it mildly, bits of hardcore sex wrapped around more sensual coding then draped around his circuit boards like the finest of riddles. And he was going to get ahead rather than following, anticipate it, trap it...and one day soon he was going to do the same to the stud behind it--really teach him a lesson.
A few more minutes lost and his knuckles punched the stop command. The wriggly bit of code dissolved.
And then indeed, like the stars-granted wish Robin had taunted, was Mr. Goodfellow's girlfriend again, all--
"--juicy and inviting and spec-taaaac-u-lar." Fate's jaw dropped for the second time that day. "Moons-bless. That's--"
Rendered speechless in appreciation, he squirmed in his chair.
"Also fucking hot. Robin, my man, I don't even know what to do with that. Store it in my favorites, I guess. Wallpaper, because it's not like there's workplace eti--FUCK!"
He snapped off his mic. He'd still been hooked in to the recording subroutine. Though he ordered a scrambler toward the file Fate watched helplessly as the code trail for that second audio disappeared after the rest of the data he'd sent Robin. Far, far too late to block that one from going through.
So much for subtlety. Privacy.
Class.
Fate sighed and stared at the metadata again, at how very close of a chase Robin was leading him into. "Just like his playful little virus. I just wish I knew what he wanted!"
No, he couldn't ask outright.
A more roundabout way was the only recourse.
The location ping was clearing up again, and Fate thought he just might have a way to force his foe into admitting his aim, without having to actually ask the question. Make him squirm, make him ask for what he needed...and stars, he absolutely HAD to do so without the plan in his head twisting up like a kinky sex game involving code instead of cables...WITH A DUDE.
His forehead hit the desk a few times before he settled in and began weaving the code for the more complex plan. Robin might be disappointed his volley would take extra precious minutes in returning, but what had he said? Effort? Time?
Wishes granted...
The question rattled off his tongue and repeatedly around the inside of Fate's head as he scrolled through the less system-invasive responses from the other man. Was Robin just closer now than he'd been before? A local trip instead of code sent from planets away?
>>It says my brain is sexy.
>>To the ladies.
He couldn't ask outright why Robin had chosen today to get in close. That would end the game.
"Ropey. Right." One rust-colored eyebrow popped upward as a clearly accented response flitted through. Slang, but not the typical station jargon, not the kind of slang that poured accelerate over half the letters and left them behind to die in a blaze of their former glory. That was...refreshing, he decided.
>>Riding a velociraptor feels like it also may fall under that heading.
>>What with all the eating people tendencies the historians and dramatists go on about.
>>Unless you aren't people.
>>Then it's--
>>Are you people?
He was right...Fate did tend to type like he talked, unfiltered and open. And this was exactly why he tried not to engage with anyone other than machines or his agents--very few of whom he could call friends. It had the possibility of giving away weakness instead of surface sarcasm and amusement, and might clue a true, dangerous enemy into where to find him, and how to hurt them--him. He didn't think Robin was an enemy. Hadn't from the beginning, however annoying the upstart had been as he infected his workspace.
>>Only 5? How disappointing.
>>I could get whatever I want with enough time and effort.
>>But it'd be shady effort, if I wasn't paying fair.
>>Difference between thieving and fixing a problem.
Fate's research was turning up nothing of consequence. Robin was just too good at not being seen, as if he were flitting beside the world but not in it.
Which was impossible, if he was people.
Code seemed to come from quite close to his chest, though--and Fate could use that, wrap him in it, blind whatever sensors...
With the next message he got from Robin though, Fate noticed something wriggling through his connections. Sliding straight into the language grids, riffling through folders with little interest than just to move along. He followed it, absently checking the folders and blanching as filenames came back in ancient Greek, blinked then displayed in alien characters instead. Attempting to reset them made the code itself come out in French. And then put it on a loop.
He growled and chased the viral little nuisance, noting the triggers on his outbound keys kept rotating, useless.
He switched to chasing it through his implant interface, his eye twitching and blinking rapidly even as he typed to Robin with one hand and slid the cord into his neck with the other simultaneously.
>>Oh, this is cute.
>>You've given my circuits an LTD.
>>Language Transmitted Disorder.
>>I hope this is sending to you in cuneiform.
"And just in case it has," he added aloud, queuing a range of recording software to pick up the audio clip, "this is definitely effort and time. Not hard effort, just annoying effort. I keep having to change what language I'm typing commands in as to get it to bounce. So yeah. Cute. But not as cute as I can be."
Audio fired off in a flash.
It was more than cute. It was, to put it mildly, bits of hardcore sex wrapped around more sensual coding then draped around his circuit boards like the finest of riddles. And he was going to get ahead rather than following, anticipate it, trap it...and one day soon he was going to do the same to the stud behind it--really teach him a lesson.
A few more minutes lost and his knuckles punched the stop command. The wriggly bit of code dissolved.
And then indeed, like the stars-granted wish Robin had taunted, was Mr. Goodfellow's girlfriend again, all--
"--juicy and inviting and spec-taaaac-u-lar." Fate's jaw dropped for the second time that day. "Moons-bless. That's--"
Rendered speechless in appreciation, he squirmed in his chair.
"Also fucking hot. Robin, my man, I don't even know what to do with that. Store it in my favorites, I guess. Wallpaper, because it's not like there's workplace eti--FUCK!"
He snapped off his mic. He'd still been hooked in to the recording subroutine. Though he ordered a scrambler toward the file Fate watched helplessly as the code trail for that second audio disappeared after the rest of the data he'd sent Robin. Far, far too late to block that one from going through.
So much for subtlety. Privacy.
Class.
Fate sighed and stared at the metadata again, at how very close of a chase Robin was leading him into. "Just like his playful little virus. I just wish I knew what he wanted!"
No, he couldn't ask outright.
A more roundabout way was the only recourse.
The location ping was clearing up again, and Fate thought he just might have a way to force his foe into admitting his aim, without having to actually ask the question. Make him squirm, make him ask for what he needed...and stars, he absolutely HAD to do so without the plan in his head twisting up like a kinky sex game involving code instead of cables...WITH A DUDE.
His forehead hit the desk a few times before he settled in and began weaving the code for the more complex plan. Robin might be disappointed his volley would take extra precious minutes in returning, but what had he said? Effort? Time?
Wishes granted...
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
The following 1 user Likes danixiewrites's post: Tindome
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