[fic] [Ergo Proxy] Promotions
Mar. 22nd, 2008 12:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenThis just in:
Vinland Saga is the manliest manga to ever man. As is to be expected from a shockingly well-researched series about VIKINGS. I continue to be confused as to how this titles is fairly recent (some do that to me. Heat Guy J? Is totally a 90s series. It came out in 2004). It has the feel of one of those huge epic titles that started like, twenty years ago, and will go on into infinity (hi jojo). This is not the case. As I discovered when I REACHED THE END OF THE SCANS. DAMN.
In other news, have some Ergo Proxy fic. Raul Creed. 1,183 words. Spoilers for Episode 17.
The stench of gas and smoke hung in the air. Raul sucked in a breath and gagged. Dust stuck to the back of his mouth. The overhead lights flicked on and off, on and off. Something warm seeped through his shirt. He thought it was blood, until he caught an additional scent oily scent. Not blood, them. Core fluid.
The autoreiv on top of him was missing an arm and portions of her epidermal casing. One of her small round eyes cracked in the blast. Soot blackened half of her facial plate and smoke rose in ribbons from her back. Spinal hardware lay exposed for all in the crumbling main concourse to see: twitching, knitted synth-tissue, pieces of glass sticking out in all directions.
“Kristeva,” said Raul quietly.
Her good eye flickered. “R-R-R-R-Raul Cre-creed. Rau-l Cre-ed.” Vocal distortion. Looped sequence. Developers called this an autoreiv’s Death Rattle. Her head fell at an angle. Something sizzled, popped, and then she said, “It would appear you are in serviceable condition.”
He stared. Workers pulled her off of him. The emergency lights snapped on. The room glowed red.
He suffered a bruised rib, a minor cranial abrasion, and second degree burns centered largely on his chest. Autoreiv circulatory fluids were above average temperatures. A nondescript member of the Health Bureau slapped patches onto the cuts, sprayed sterilization fluids over the bruises and burns, and attached censors to the sides of his skull. A pair of small white entourages watched the machines. The doctors asked him questions, while patterns of color fluctuated over the screen.
Name.
Raul Creed.
Occupation.
Chief Supervisor of Security Division 1
Time of last entry to the Bureau’s Main Facility?
Approximately nine hours ago.
Were the regular maintenance crew on staff that day?
I had assumed so. I am less than certain, now.
Did you speak to the Chief at any point in the last twenty-four hours?
Once. Briefly.
Everyone mentioned the flaws in the maintenance system. Gaps in the power grid. A missed inspection. Everyone said it was a shame that the current Chief took extended medical level at such an inconvenient time.
“Had you any prior news of this departure?”
If by ‘prior news’ they meant ‘laughing hysterically with a bomb strapped to his ribs’…”No,” said Raul. “None.” He kept his face impassive. They issued him a clean shirt and released him.
It was late when he returned home. The lights in Samantha’s room were set to dim. A single lamp in the living room snapped on as the door shut. Raul made his way to the parlor. He laid his briefcase over the coffee table. He settled in the armchair, leaned back, and considered the order of his next actions. A shower would be first. He had been properly rinsed down upon entry into the health facilities. It removed the smoke and dust, but not the oily itch that spread from his collarbone to his stomach. Then, perhaps, a rearrangement of his schedule. Then, perhaps, sleep. Then...
In a dark corner, a pair of red lights pierced the dark.
“Ah, Pino,” said Raul.
A shadow moved out of a slouch, into the modest ring of light “Good evening, Father.”
Raul squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Application on.”
Her face brightened. “Papa!” she said, running to him. She stopped a step away, and curtsied. Samantha had insisted on that behavioral sequence. “Have you had a good day?”
“I’ve had an interesting one,” said Raul. “And what have we learned today, Pino?”
This statement carried a set response. Pino clicked her heels together, and swung her arms behind her back. She held her chin high. “Many things, Papa.”
“Things like what?”
This was her cue to elaborate. She spun in a circle. Her hair settled in perfect order. “Pino has read the sheets that Papa bought her last Sunday. She learned a new song. Would Papa like to hear?”
Samantha was a light sleeper. “Not right now. Is there anything else?”
Pino tipped her head to the side. The mechanical click reminded Raul of the sick tilt of Kristeva’s dislocated neck. He took a deep breath. Pino tapped her cheek. It was the motion that represented an ongoing search of her memory banks.
“Oh,” she said, which meant that the search had come up with the requested item. Her head came up level again. “Pino has learned a poem. Would Papa like to hear?”
“Yes,” said Raul, allowing himself a faint smile. “Let’s hear it.”
Pino curtsied graciously. She began, in a deeper tone, strangely accented:
“Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”
Raul frowned.
Pino stopped. She was programmed to prioritize this response.
“Is something wrong, Papa?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“An entertainment poster in Pleasant Park. Set up 360 Units from light rail station 4B.”
“Thank you, Pino. That was a very nice poem.”
“Would Papa like to hear it again?”
Raul fiddled with the front of his shirt. “It’s such a nice poem Papa won’t need to hear it ever again.” He unflipped his soot-spattered phone. The screen sputtered to life, shakily. “I need to make a call.” His voice was perfectly level.
“Pino will be quiet.” She turned to face the wall. Raul made a personal note to speak with his wife about that particular customization.
A voice picked it up on the other end.
He typed in his registration code, he needed no name. “I’m inquiring as to the condition of my affects.”
Dot.
“I see. I would like a nice view. Send me the temporary address. And as for the unit?”
Dot.
“No, a transferal will not be necessary.”
Dot.
“I am aware of that.”
Dot.
“It would be troublesome to have it replaced. Its core functions are still serviceable. I’d like the rest of it fully operational by tomorrow.”
Dot.
The corner of Raul’s mouth turned up. He leaned forward. He tapped his free hand against the arm of his chair. “Now is the time to conserve, after all.”
The next morning he was shown to the temporary offices. They were large, spacious, very white, and Raul did not expect to be there for long. It was only until maintenance finished installing new fire safety systems in the old offices, after all. Any talk of an attack was limited to the anarchist feeds in the lower regions of Romdo. Good citizens never believed those. They always embellished the facts.
The autoreiv was a cut of black against the window. It overlooked the park. It was, in fact, a nice view.
“Good morning,” said Raul.
The autoreiv turned. Its arms folded neatly behind its back, an unbroken stretch of synthetic tissue, tuned to the finest response.
“Good morning, Raul Creed,” she said. “You look well.”
He couldn’t remember requesting her to ask after his health. No matter. Those responsible for such repairs sometimes made strange assumptions.
“As do you,” he answered, politely.
“Thank you,” said Kristeva.
Vinland Saga is the manliest manga to ever man. As is to be expected from a shockingly well-researched series about VIKINGS. I continue to be confused as to how this titles is fairly recent (some do that to me. Heat Guy J? Is totally a 90s series. It came out in 2004). It has the feel of one of those huge epic titles that started like, twenty years ago, and will go on into infinity (hi jojo). This is not the case. As I discovered when I REACHED THE END OF THE SCANS. DAMN.
In other news, have some Ergo Proxy fic. Raul Creed. 1,183 words. Spoilers for Episode 17.
The stench of gas and smoke hung in the air. Raul sucked in a breath and gagged. Dust stuck to the back of his mouth. The overhead lights flicked on and off, on and off. Something warm seeped through his shirt. He thought it was blood, until he caught an additional scent oily scent. Not blood, them. Core fluid.
The autoreiv on top of him was missing an arm and portions of her epidermal casing. One of her small round eyes cracked in the blast. Soot blackened half of her facial plate and smoke rose in ribbons from her back. Spinal hardware lay exposed for all in the crumbling main concourse to see: twitching, knitted synth-tissue, pieces of glass sticking out in all directions.
“Kristeva,” said Raul quietly.
Her good eye flickered. “R-R-R-R-Raul Cre-creed. Rau-l Cre-ed.” Vocal distortion. Looped sequence. Developers called this an autoreiv’s Death Rattle. Her head fell at an angle. Something sizzled, popped, and then she said, “It would appear you are in serviceable condition.”
He stared. Workers pulled her off of him. The emergency lights snapped on. The room glowed red.
He suffered a bruised rib, a minor cranial abrasion, and second degree burns centered largely on his chest. Autoreiv circulatory fluids were above average temperatures. A nondescript member of the Health Bureau slapped patches onto the cuts, sprayed sterilization fluids over the bruises and burns, and attached censors to the sides of his skull. A pair of small white entourages watched the machines. The doctors asked him questions, while patterns of color fluctuated over the screen.
Name.
Raul Creed.
Occupation.
Chief Supervisor of Security Division 1
Time of last entry to the Bureau’s Main Facility?
Approximately nine hours ago.
Were the regular maintenance crew on staff that day?
I had assumed so. I am less than certain, now.
Did you speak to the Chief at any point in the last twenty-four hours?
Once. Briefly.
Everyone mentioned the flaws in the maintenance system. Gaps in the power grid. A missed inspection. Everyone said it was a shame that the current Chief took extended medical level at such an inconvenient time.
“Had you any prior news of this departure?”
If by ‘prior news’ they meant ‘laughing hysterically with a bomb strapped to his ribs’…”No,” said Raul. “None.” He kept his face impassive. They issued him a clean shirt and released him.
It was late when he returned home. The lights in Samantha’s room were set to dim. A single lamp in the living room snapped on as the door shut. Raul made his way to the parlor. He laid his briefcase over the coffee table. He settled in the armchair, leaned back, and considered the order of his next actions. A shower would be first. He had been properly rinsed down upon entry into the health facilities. It removed the smoke and dust, but not the oily itch that spread from his collarbone to his stomach. Then, perhaps, a rearrangement of his schedule. Then, perhaps, sleep. Then...
In a dark corner, a pair of red lights pierced the dark.
“Ah, Pino,” said Raul.
A shadow moved out of a slouch, into the modest ring of light “Good evening, Father.”
Raul squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Application on.”
Her face brightened. “Papa!” she said, running to him. She stopped a step away, and curtsied. Samantha had insisted on that behavioral sequence. “Have you had a good day?”
“I’ve had an interesting one,” said Raul. “And what have we learned today, Pino?”
This statement carried a set response. Pino clicked her heels together, and swung her arms behind her back. She held her chin high. “Many things, Papa.”
“Things like what?”
This was her cue to elaborate. She spun in a circle. Her hair settled in perfect order. “Pino has read the sheets that Papa bought her last Sunday. She learned a new song. Would Papa like to hear?”
Samantha was a light sleeper. “Not right now. Is there anything else?”
Pino tipped her head to the side. The mechanical click reminded Raul of the sick tilt of Kristeva’s dislocated neck. He took a deep breath. Pino tapped her cheek. It was the motion that represented an ongoing search of her memory banks.
“Oh,” she said, which meant that the search had come up with the requested item. Her head came up level again. “Pino has learned a poem. Would Papa like to hear?”
“Yes,” said Raul, allowing himself a faint smile. “Let’s hear it.”
Pino curtsied graciously. She began, in a deeper tone, strangely accented:
“Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”
Raul frowned.
Pino stopped. She was programmed to prioritize this response.
“Is something wrong, Papa?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“An entertainment poster in Pleasant Park. Set up 360 Units from light rail station 4B.”
“Thank you, Pino. That was a very nice poem.”
“Would Papa like to hear it again?”
Raul fiddled with the front of his shirt. “It’s such a nice poem Papa won’t need to hear it ever again.” He unflipped his soot-spattered phone. The screen sputtered to life, shakily. “I need to make a call.” His voice was perfectly level.
“Pino will be quiet.” She turned to face the wall. Raul made a personal note to speak with his wife about that particular customization.
A voice picked it up on the other end.
He typed in his registration code, he needed no name. “I’m inquiring as to the condition of my affects.”
Dot.
“I see. I would like a nice view. Send me the temporary address. And as for the unit?”
Dot.
“No, a transferal will not be necessary.”
Dot.
“I am aware of that.”
Dot.
“It would be troublesome to have it replaced. Its core functions are still serviceable. I’d like the rest of it fully operational by tomorrow.”
Dot.
The corner of Raul’s mouth turned up. He leaned forward. He tapped his free hand against the arm of his chair. “Now is the time to conserve, after all.”
The next morning he was shown to the temporary offices. They were large, spacious, very white, and Raul did not expect to be there for long. It was only until maintenance finished installing new fire safety systems in the old offices, after all. Any talk of an attack was limited to the anarchist feeds in the lower regions of Romdo. Good citizens never believed those. They always embellished the facts.
The autoreiv was a cut of black against the window. It overlooked the park. It was, in fact, a nice view.
“Good morning,” said Raul.
The autoreiv turned. Its arms folded neatly behind its back, an unbroken stretch of synthetic tissue, tuned to the finest response.
“Good morning, Raul Creed,” she said. “You look well.”
He couldn’t remember requesting her to ask after his health. No matter. Those responsible for such repairs sometimes made strange assumptions.
“As do you,” he answered, politely.
“Thank you,” said Kristeva.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-22 04:37 am (UTC)I--I'M SORRY, I DON'T KNOW ERGO PROXY. ;_;
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-22 04:50 am (UTC)Don't worry about not knowing Ergo Proxy! NO ONE DOES. Ergo Proxy is one of the sleekest, sexiest recent sci fi series out there that nobody watched. not even in japan. (there is zero art out there for it. zero. grump. not even in the form of icky doujins!) Which I find a TRAGEDY, since it's basically a bunch of Cowboy Bebop/Samurai Champloo/Eureka 7 alum getting together to do a series about ROBOTS (well, not just robots. but it starts with robots. oh, does it start with robots.)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-22 06:15 am (UTC)I was sorely disappointed when I reached the last scanlated chapter. NEED MORE
I only watched about half of Ergo Proxy...I'm can't remember why I stopped. I really should pick it up again.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-22 06:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-24 11:22 pm (UTC)