Infiltration
Oct. 28th, 2024 09:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smartass_captainJim blinks.
He's been locked in his own processors again. How long has it been? He turns his auditory sensors back on and immediately wishes he hadn't.
"How fucking hard is it to get a goddamn order right when there's hardly any people sticking around this shithole?" A receipt is being waved in front of his face. Jim has been standing here, shoulders slumped, and completely tuned out while looking appropriately browbeaten while the reporter he's supposed to be assisting complains about the status of his breakfast sandwich.
Jim had pretended to be surprised when his 'boss' had insisted on going to Jojobeans himself for his morning pick-me-up instead of sending Jim out for coffee. Had pretended not to know the ulterior motive the reporter had. Had pretended not to feel smug knowing his contact would never show as he was busy decaying in his precious holiday home. No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints to find. A heart attack, nothing more.
He looks down at his hands.
Bloody. Streaked with soot and flakes of burnt flesh.
Jim blinks again.
Perfectly clean. Wringing in a human expression of discomfort. Curious how his subroutines are working to keep him blended in even when he's...
Malfunctioning.
He was built to walk among them. He is broken, now. But even a broken machine can still serve some purpose.
"We've still got an hour before your first interview of the day." Jim says. "I'll go to the usual spot and get you something."
Does he take out the reporter next? Or attempt to utilize him for more leads? Unwise to kill his direct 'reports'. Even a blind man would grow suspicious of assigning him new temp positions if he did. His fingers twitch without his consent. He will find more deserving targets. He will seek out every person who threatens his kind.
He is broken. But it means he is best suited to commit these atrocities. So no one else like him has to break.
He's been locked in his own processors again. How long has it been? He turns his auditory sensors back on and immediately wishes he hadn't.
"How fucking hard is it to get a goddamn order right when there's hardly any people sticking around this shithole?" A receipt is being waved in front of his face. Jim has been standing here, shoulders slumped, and completely tuned out while looking appropriately browbeaten while the reporter he's supposed to be assisting complains about the status of his breakfast sandwich.
Jim had pretended to be surprised when his 'boss' had insisted on going to Jojobeans himself for his morning pick-me-up instead of sending Jim out for coffee. Had pretended not to know the ulterior motive the reporter had. Had pretended not to feel smug knowing his contact would never show as he was busy decaying in his precious holiday home. No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints to find. A heart attack, nothing more.
He looks down at his hands.
Jim blinks again.
Perfectly clean. Wringing in a human expression of discomfort. Curious how his subroutines are working to keep him blended in even when he's...
Malfunctioning.
He was built to walk among them. He is broken, now. But even a broken machine can still serve some purpose.
"We've still got an hour before your first interview of the day." Jim says. "I'll go to the usual spot and get you something."
Does he take out the reporter next? Or attempt to utilize him for more leads? Unwise to kill his direct 'reports'. Even a blind man would grow suspicious of assigning him new temp positions if he did. His fingers twitch without his consent. He will find more deserving targets. He will seek out every person who threatens his kind.
He is broken. But it means he is best suited to commit these atrocities. So no one else like him has to break.
