Work Text:
Dusk Future: The Tyrant Recoded
(Part 1)
Ana’s delicate hands beheld the face of a once inoperative Exo that was now occupied by her life’s work. Her chocolate brown eyes were wide open, darting back and forth as she committed the new face to memory. The male Exo’s complexion was strongly molded with sleek faceplates and sharply owlish features. Their chassis’ overtone was silver like freshly polished chromium; complemented by undertones of deep gunmetal grey. Darkly, hooded optics, red-orange like vibrant geraniums followed her own. They observed her carefully, tactically discerning her motives but mostly with reserved curiosity.
All the while, excited tremors pulsed through Ana’s hands as she ran them along the once empty shell of robotic Exoskeleton. Though she was checking the exterior plating like a seasoned mechanic looking for imperfections, she still felt a tad sheepish. Normally Ana would be careful to shy away from physical contact or invading personal spaces. A sort of unspoken phobia of unrequited attachments that she’d rather not admit to herself. Broken relationships would just be added hurt to go with the list of homogeneous disappointments inherited from the Bray family. Though she was overly sensitive to this fact, it was quickly overshadowed by the excitement she felt.
There was no reason for her to worry.
If anything, Ana was hard at work fighting off a burgeoning smile. She wanted to shout out in success, but her years of clinical detachment was going to war with her lips. Every so often, the Huntress would catch herself as the corners of her mouth hooked upward. She would promptly correct the unintentional expression, yet no matter how intently she focused, her efforts would slip. Then Ana would find herself grinning like a fox again.
Everything in this one moment went beyond her wildest dreams. Perhaps a little celebration would be okay, just this once?
He was alive.
And she couldn’t believe it.
“I can’t believe it, Red,” she whispered like a child to their beloved friend. “It’s really you in there.”
The Warmind-made-Exo remained quiet, permitting himself not to speak as he continued to calculate the moment. Normally he would have remoted into an external memory bank, to further understand the data he was computing, but that was not possible between himself and Ana. Ontologically speaking, he was a series of code stored within a mobile processing unit and, though similar, Ana was of a biological constitution.
His cybernetic processor longed for a server bank or even a sandbox to gain a modicum of access to Ana's current thought data. He felt like the limbs of his frame were held behind a restricted group that his Group Policy was not configured properly for. In retrieving what remained of his extensive observations of humanity and their physiological limitations, he felt “sleepy”. How does one understand the information contained within a storage device they had no access to? Canceling out of his cognitive programming application, Rasputin decided to archive his query for later.
“This is so, so...cool,” Ana beamed. Casually, she tucked her short, black hair behind her ear as she leaned away. Rasputin, having observed her, mimicked Ana’s motions regardless of the follicles he did not have. The Huntress had not noticed as she took a step back, her thoughts like an Arctic flurry. “I know it’s a lot to process—or so to speak—but how do you feel, Big Red?”
“Feel?” He queried within himself. “What is the meaning of the term? What defines a ‘feeling’ or a ‘human emotion’?”
Rasputin did not answer for he did not know.
Somewhere behind Ana, the Huntress heard the creak of a nearby stool. Flinching, she had nearly forgot about the presence of imposing fortitude that was the Vanguard Commander. Glancing over her shoulder, Ana found Zavala leaning forward, hanging his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His right leg jiggled for a moment and then ceased as he sighed with heavy concern. The Warmind, however, had not forgotten. Though he had been scrutinizing his caretaker, Ana, he had also kept close tabs on the Commander. The Awoken was an exponentially, grave threat to himself.
Yet despite this present knowledge, Rasputin opted to copy Zavala’s concerned form of kinesics. It was a fascinating opportunity to recreate the common -isms that both Humans and Humanoids seemed to share. They bonded quite frequently with unspoken queues and a sort of physical flavor text that he was only beginning to understand.
“How is this possible?” The Commander asked. “The Warmind ‘Rasputin’, artificially modified, to become near-Human. This is...this is unthinkable.”
Ana shrugged, “Stranger things have happened, Zavala. Take what happened to ‘Lord Felwinter’, for example.”
Suddenly, Rasputin’s internal algorithms surged powerfully at his late son’s mention. Old, archived documents and their related metadata were immediately recalled from his cached banks. As the Warmind shook his head, a notion he often observed Humans displaying, he prompted the command to cease its unintentional query. His vibrant geranium-colored eyes flicked to the floor, suddenly intrigued with its pattern and design. He seemed to be experiencing some form of system latency issues. Perhaps he needed a reboot? Or maybe this was an ‘emotion’ he was experiencing...?
“Has he said much of anything yet since waking up?” Zavala asked. Sitting upright in his chair, he folded his arms over his chest, and cast his glowing blue eyes upon Ana.
“Not really,” she replied. The Huntress turned back toward Big Red and took him in, a frown of concern now on her lips. As Ana went to folding her arms as well, slightly tapping her foot, a small sliver of concern wheedled it’s way into her thoughts. Perhaps Rasputin didn’t know how to communicate in this form. Biting her lip in worry, Ana dismissed it quickly. This was the Warmind—Big Red—he’d figure out a way. She just knew it. “Seems to be processing everything still. Give him time, he’ll answer eventually.”
“What are your plans for containment?” the Awoken Vanguard asked cautiously.
Ana whirled around at the drop of a hat, suddenly appalled. “‘Containment’? Big Red should enjoy the endless opportunities that everyone else does. He’s his own person.”
Zavala jumped to his feet, immediately bewildered as his metaphorical feathers were ruffled. “Are you meaning to tell me that you plan to ‘socialize’ one of the most lethal weapon systems in Human history?” He scoffed, “That’s not just any Exo, Ana. It’s a manufactured chassis that now houses part of Rasputin himself!”
“Gah! Why are you so irritating?!” She groused and began pulling at her raven hair. “Zavala, this is crazy. We have ourselves the best opportunity to show Big Red around and what it means to be ‘Human’. It’s not like all of this is an easy adjustment for him either.”
“He’s a Warmind!” Zavala exclaimed, pointing toward Rasputin for extra emphasis. “A long series of code with subroutines we cannot possibly imagine. He’s not a real person. He was born in a lab—an artificially produced intelligence.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Ana said, her voice quavering with frustration. “What will it take to prove it to you?”
The Titan huffed out his frustration and went to pinching the bridge of his nose for a second time. A part of him wanted to reason with Ana. Not that he should have to, Ana already knew firsthand the swift repercussions that came with trusting Clovis Bray and his dastardly creations. Maybe he was being over-protective, but it was similar to paternal instinct for him. She was like a daughter to him and blast it all if he found that one hair on her head had been harmed. Eventually, Zavala’s tender heart gave way to pity as he glimpsed the pleading look that Ana had resolved to staring him down with.
He sighed, “He can’t walk around The City. I forbid it. We can’t just let our mobile Warmind wander on the loose. It’s too dangerous. Not to mention stupid.”
“How about The Tower?” Ana asked, perking up as she rocked forward and back, from heel-to-toe.
“Fine,” he groused, his hands falling to his hips. “Don’t make me regret this.” Quickly, Zavala added, “Our friend here is going to need a new name. We can’t exactly go around calling him ‘Rasputin’. Even in the Tower, there are many bad elements out there waiting to exploit an opportunity when they see one.”
His reach could only go so far.
Even as the Commander of the Vanguard.
He was not a law unto his own.
Ana crossed her arms, cheekily asking, “You mean the Factions, don’t you?”
Zavala frowned in response.
“Okay, okay,” she said, holding her hands up. “Sheesh!”
“The fact that we have Factions when we also have a Consensus should be a testimony to the problems we face as a collective whole,” he spoke, airing out an age-old worry. “They’re only making things worse in the long run. All this division is—noisome—for the lack of a better word.”
“Tell me about it,” Ana said rolling her eyes. “Future War Cult. New Monarchy. Dead Orbit. Not exactly…inviting…options. All of them sound pretty selfish in my opinion. Speaking of options though. What should we call our friend here if ‘Rasputin’ doesn’t work?”
The Awoken Vanguard thought to himself, his fluorescent eyes growing distant as he did. Suddenly an idea struck. Looking up and into Ana’s chocolate brown eyes, he smiled small. “How about Charlemagne?”
“Don’t you think that’s playing it a little too close to the cuff?” Ana lightly protested, her brow arching quizzically. “That would be a huge tip off to anyone who knows the code name he used in Freehold.”
“Only one guardian was on that mission,” Zavala said, matter of fact, “and the mission files are archived in the Vanguard databanks. Only those with proper authority—need-to-know privileges—would be able to access that level of information.” The robust Titan, stepped forward and returned his gaze to the vibrant geranium optics that never left his hawkish periphery. “Besides, perhaps it would be beneficial to use something more familiar…to all of us.”
“Are—are you sure?” Ana fumbled, a lilt of excitement lifting her spirit.
“It’s up to Rasputin,” Zavala said. “What say you, Warmind?”
The male Exo—Rasputin himself—clenched the side of the operation slab, his hands clamping around the polished edge. The sound was a slight more metallic and daunting than he had intended seeing as Ana flinched at the sound. Shoving forward, he shimmied off the table and awkwardly stood to his brand new feet. Unaccustomed to the motions, his legs began to wobble and buckle. Before he could catch himself completely, Ana shoved her shoulder right under the crook of his arm and helped him to stand.
Many thoughts surged through his limited processing capacity, one in particular was the power of her touch. He could feel her—Ana—the warmth, the realness, and the bulk of her armor. He could even hear the way she breathed. What a strange sensation it was, just like earlier when she was ministering to his well-being. Is this what it was like to be human? To touch? To feel? To live a tangible existence with finite limitations…?
As Rasputin drew all available electronic, physical, and visual data to his unit, the mobile Warmind wrapped himself up with a cloak of invisible code. Deciding to finally interact with the world more directly than ever before, all of the information he had gathered up to this point, coalesced inside his processor. Rasputin leaned away from Ana the moment he came into his strength and stood on his own.
While the Warmind peered into Zavala and Ana’s equally curious gazes, his vibrant geranium optics began to lightly pulse with blue tones. Soon thereafter, the color held steady, now a dark, rich purple hue. Then he spoke. “Call me ‘Fareweather’. ‘Charlemagne Fareweather’.”