alex murphy || robocop 2014 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yourmove) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixwordstories2014-02-25 03:45 am
yourmove) wrote in sixwordstories2014-02-25 03:45 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
[ ARREST MODE__ ]
Hands on your head.
Hands on your head.
"Last name? And what's this?"
He shifts his foot slightly against the cube, graphene grinding against its surface. Chell has given him a name and nothing else, nothing to convince him she isn't a possible threat because all he has questions. At least he doesn't think he needs to tase her, not when Chell's shoulders relax and she shifts her weight from her legs. Slightly better start.
Alex would sigh, if he could.
He still can't get why things went south the moment she saw his face. It'd bothered him in the back of his mind, the part that wasn't busy tracking her down and searching for more data. Unless there are gaps in his memory - possible, since they'd been hacking up parts of his brain to install chips - Alex can say he hasn't seen her before in his life, before or after OmniCorp got their hands on him.
He shifts his foot slightly against the cube, graphene grinding against its surface. Chell has given him a name and nothing else, nothing to convince him she isn't a possible threat because all he has questions. At least he doesn't think he needs to tase her, not when Chell's shoulders relax and she shifts her weight from her legs. Slightly better start.
Alex would sigh, if he could.
He still can't get why things went south the moment she saw his face. It'd bothered him in the back of his mind, the part that wasn't busy tracking her down and searching for more data. Unless there are gaps in his memory - possible, since they'd been hacking up parts of his brain to install chips - Alex can say he hasn't seen her before in his life, before or after OmniCorp got their hands on him.
Sorry I forgot to be PC there for a second. Cyborg cop then.
I'll give you this you are quick I just killed my target five minutes ago.
Explain? From the sounds of it, the detective already knows the story. It's a little unnerving for Andy, realizing that this man probably read the entirety of his record while they were just standing there. Most people, even cops, would have had to do a little digging first, but not this guy. That must be why he wears the visor, Andy thinks. So then he already knows about the incident at the doll factory eight years ago, and the murders leading up to that. And then, two years earlier, when it all started, the murders then. Sixteen in all, counting the murders at Kent. And those are just the ones Andy knows about.
He considers his options for a fraction of a second. On the one hand, he's still pinned, the grip on the back of his neck strong enough now that he's pretty sure he's not slipping loose no matter how hard he tries. On the other, he hasn't been handcuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car yet. This man's listening to him, at least right now. And really, what has he got to lose? This guy thinking he's crazy? It's not like he'd be the first officer who came to that conclusion.
"Someone brought what was left of him here." It all spills out of Andy in a rush now, because if he's going to tell the crazy truth, he might as well tell all of it. "I came here to stop them from putting him back together, to make sure he can't ever get put back together again. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. People saw him! Tyler, DeSilva, they told the police what they saw. And Kyle, eight years ago Kyle saw him too. Take a look at the files again, you'll see."
He considers his options for a fraction of a second. On the one hand, he's still pinned, the grip on the back of his neck strong enough now that he's pretty sure he's not slipping loose no matter how hard he tries. On the other, he hasn't been handcuffed and shoved in the back of a squad car yet. This man's listening to him, at least right now. And really, what has he got to lose? This guy thinking he's crazy? It's not like he'd be the first officer who came to that conclusion.
"Someone brought what was left of him here." It all spills out of Andy in a rush now, because if he's going to tell the crazy truth, he might as well tell all of it. "I came here to stop them from putting him back together, to make sure he can't ever get put back together again. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. People saw him! Tyler, DeSilva, they told the police what they saw. And Kyle, eight years ago Kyle saw him too. Take a look at the files again, you'll see."
"Don't know." It's said with a shrug. Maybe if she'd had more human contact it would start bothering her, but for the time being she doesn't particularly care. After all, what's a last name other than a way to designate who your family is? And it's not like she has a family, to the best of her knowledge.
A real, little smile creeps onto her face before she answers his second question, despite how hard she's trying to remain impassive. "Aperture Science Weighted Companion Cube. A friend."
Chell doesn't exactly like being asked so many questions. Not that she'd rather be put through her paces on a testing track, but there's something about it that just irritates her. So she decides to try to turn the tables and get a couple answers of her own. "Is this another test? Did she send you after me?"
A real, little smile creeps onto her face before she answers his second question, despite how hard she's trying to remain impassive. "Aperture Science Weighted Companion Cube. A friend."
Chell doesn't exactly like being asked so many questions. Not that she'd rather be put through her paces on a testing track, but there's something about it that just irritates her. So she decides to try to turn the tables and get a couple answers of her own. "Is this another test? Did she send you after me?"
"It's not my fault the idiots I'm working with let him through the cordon." His posture is relaxed, but only slightly. He's always at the ready. "He's a federal fugitive from your government. Now that he's escaped, who the hell knows if he'll turn up or run off again."
He delivers this all calmly, meanwhile his earpiece tries to get his attention again and he just ignores it. He's annoyed with what happened today, he'll keep his handlers sweating until he finishes here. Punishment better than yelling at them or threatening them.
He delivers this all calmly, meanwhile his earpiece tries to get his attention again and he just ignores it. He's annoyed with what happened today, he'll keep his handlers sweating until he finishes here. Punishment better than yelling at them or threatening them.
So he was sticking with that story, was he? Mr. Barclay’s consistent with his story and while he broadcasts signs of nervousness, Alex in’t detecting the usual signs of lying. The rush of words pass over him as he stares impassively at the kid, registering the look on his face, the way he stumbles over his words as if the truth - what he believes to be the truth – is enough to sway him to his side. Looking at him and measuring his biometric readings, he really does believe every single word.
"I'll take a look," Alex says, and didn't know why. He used to operate on gut instincts before he took a car bomb to the face: sharing a body with AI systems that he can’t tell where they end and he begins means he doesn’t have a lot of room for “hunches” anymore.
His brown eyes take on a faraway, almost vacant look as he consults his HUD, scanning those Barclay, Andrew criminal records again. “Chucky” refers to a Good Guy doll, as antique as Andy’s revolver: they don’t even make these things anymore and what few are left out there go for thousands. Even if it’s in parts and damaged. These things are commodities now. Alex doesn’t pretend to understand. He’s not programmed to understand, anyway, which works out because the cyborg and the human parts of him all agree. He’s still human enough to consider dolls…creepy. And he’s saying this as the guy who can take getting shot at, no problem.
“Witness accounts on file, verified,” Alex’s eyes flick down to the kid he’s detained. “There’s a scheduled charity auction next week involving a Good Guy doll.”
"I'll take a look," Alex says, and didn't know why. He used to operate on gut instincts before he took a car bomb to the face: sharing a body with AI systems that he can’t tell where they end and he begins means he doesn’t have a lot of room for “hunches” anymore.
His brown eyes take on a faraway, almost vacant look as he consults his HUD, scanning those Barclay, Andrew criminal records again. “Chucky” refers to a Good Guy doll, as antique as Andy’s revolver: they don’t even make these things anymore and what few are left out there go for thousands. Even if it’s in parts and damaged. These things are commodities now. Alex doesn’t pretend to understand. He’s not programmed to understand, anyway, which works out because the cyborg and the human parts of him all agree. He’s still human enough to consider dolls…creepy. And he’s saying this as the guy who can take getting shot at, no problem.
“Witness accounts on file, verified,” Alex’s eyes flick down to the kid he’s detained. “There’s a scheduled charity auction next week involving a Good Guy doll.”
Try as he might, Andy can't tell at all whether or not the detective believes a word of what he's telling him. It's hard for him not to look away outright as the man stares him down coolly, absorbing the information in silence. To be honest, it's a little unnerving - the detective doesn't blink, not once, and his gaze is so intent that Andy can't help feeling like he's being x-rayed. Forget Colonel Shelton or Major Ellis, he's got the staring contest champion of the year right here.
He's relieved, then, when the detective agrees to review his records, though the response is so flat he still has no idea if the officer believes him or if he's just humoring him. He's expecting the visor to come back down, but instead the detective's eyes just kind of glaze over, as if he were a computer in the process of rebooting.
Feeling decidedly uneasy, Andy shifts his weight from one foot to the other and tries to resist the urge to give running away another go. He might be human after all, but clearly the armor the detective's wearing isn't just a fancy suit.
"Are... you okay?" he asks hesitantly, to no response. He's starting to wish it had been another cop, any other cop, that had caught sight of him. Because yeah, they would have probably just dismissed his story outright and stuffed him into a squad car, but at least then he'd know what was going on.
Squirming uncomfortably in his current hunched position, Andy's just about ready to reconsider the decision to not run away when the detective just... snaps back, as suddenly as he'd spaced out in the first place. The unreadable brown eyes focus right back in on him again, and the officer announces his findings flatly, without preamble.
"A charity auction?" Andy's face betrays incredulity, first, and then an involuntary grimace of what's equal parts horror and disgust. The idea of Chucky's remains falling into the hands of some well-meaning philanthropist, probably with a family of their own, makes him want to throw up. "Please, you have to let me go, you have to let me find him before that happens. He'll pull himself back together and kill them all if I don't stop him."
He's relieved, then, when the detective agrees to review his records, though the response is so flat he still has no idea if the officer believes him or if he's just humoring him. He's expecting the visor to come back down, but instead the detective's eyes just kind of glaze over, as if he were a computer in the process of rebooting.
Feeling decidedly uneasy, Andy shifts his weight from one foot to the other and tries to resist the urge to give running away another go. He might be human after all, but clearly the armor the detective's wearing isn't just a fancy suit.
"Are... you okay?" he asks hesitantly, to no response. He's starting to wish it had been another cop, any other cop, that had caught sight of him. Because yeah, they would have probably just dismissed his story outright and stuffed him into a squad car, but at least then he'd know what was going on.
Squirming uncomfortably in his current hunched position, Andy's just about ready to reconsider the decision to not run away when the detective just... snaps back, as suddenly as he'd spaced out in the first place. The unreadable brown eyes focus right back in on him again, and the officer announces his findings flatly, without preamble.
"A charity auction?" Andy's face betrays incredulity, first, and then an involuntary grimace of what's equal parts horror and disgust. The idea of Chucky's remains falling into the hands of some well-meaning philanthropist, probably with a family of their own, makes him want to throw up. "Please, you have to let me go, you have to let me find him before that happens. He'll pull himself back together and kill them all if I don't stop him."
Running away again would be…unwise. It would probably result in tasing of a minor. Alex wasn’t prone to second chances these days, not like he might’ve been if they had run into each other before Vallon’s car bomb and he didn’t have an AI always running in the background.
“Yes. A charity auction, all proceeds helping to renovate Kulan Hospital.” Alex’s face in comparison is still, smoothed into a mask.
He listens to Andy’s pleas, observing the way his face first goes slack and then tenses, his teeth bared. Protocol says he detains the suspect and brings him in for questioning. Somehow, though, Alex finds himself wanting to do what he would’ve done a lifetime ago: follow his gut instinct for a change. The criminal database is 95% accurate these days – it’s that last 5% that worries him and if Andy’s a liar, he’s so good even the most up to date biometric analysis subroutine is fooled. He stares at Andy and does something that doesn’t come easy.
He decides to go with that gut instinct, faint as it is.
Alex’s head tilts toward the boy as he releases his bruising grip on his neck. “You will remain in my custody at all times. Attempts to escape will result in incapacitation and detention. Stay within 50 yards. I will…” he pauses. “I will investigate.”
It’s the closest thing to a loophole he can manage right now, feeling the chips in the back of his head (literally, along the folds of his brain) trying to basically tell him this is not what he’s supposed to be doing. Alex’s hand drops down to his side as he again accesses information feeds about the Kulan Hospital Charity, looking for where this supposed “Chucky” is. Probably being moved or held in storage, until the auction, where it will probably be moved on-site.
“Yes. A charity auction, all proceeds helping to renovate Kulan Hospital.” Alex’s face in comparison is still, smoothed into a mask.
He listens to Andy’s pleas, observing the way his face first goes slack and then tenses, his teeth bared. Protocol says he detains the suspect and brings him in for questioning. Somehow, though, Alex finds himself wanting to do what he would’ve done a lifetime ago: follow his gut instinct for a change. The criminal database is 95% accurate these days – it’s that last 5% that worries him and if Andy’s a liar, he’s so good even the most up to date biometric analysis subroutine is fooled. He stares at Andy and does something that doesn’t come easy.
He decides to go with that gut instinct, faint as it is.
Alex’s head tilts toward the boy as he releases his bruising grip on his neck. “You will remain in my custody at all times. Attempts to escape will result in incapacitation and detention. Stay within 50 yards. I will…” he pauses. “I will investigate.”
It’s the closest thing to a loophole he can manage right now, feeling the chips in the back of his head (literally, along the folds of his brain) trying to basically tell him this is not what he’s supposed to be doing. Alex’s hand drops down to his side as he again accesses information feeds about the Kulan Hospital Charity, looking for where this supposed “Chucky” is. Probably being moved or held in storage, until the auction, where it will probably be moved on-site.
"Classified." The way he spits the word out, he probably hates it more than Murphy. He also believes that DCPD would get in more trouble than the army trying to take down the target.
Gut instinct's probably what kept Andy from trying to run just now, even as the rest of him urged him to take the opportunity, knowing he wouldn't be likely to get a better chance. He has a healthy respect for gut instinct - it's saved his life more than once over the years, and not just from Chucky. He's learned to trust that instinct, and right now it's telling him to sit tight and keep cooperating. The detective might not have much to say, but he is listening.
A fraction of a second passes in silence, just long enough for him to wonder if he didn't just make a terrible mistake, and then his instinct is vindicated as he feels that iron grip around his neck let go, freeing him to stand up straight again. His reaction is immediate; he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck gingerly and pivots so he's facing the officer, peering up at that still-impassive face.
Was he hoping just now it had been another cop that had collared him? Boy, he couldn't have been more wrong about that.
"50 yards. Got it," Andy agrees, and quickly amends, "I mean, no problem. Understood. Sir."
Andy can't hide his relief and doesn't bother trying; he doesn't even care if the detective arrests him after this is all said and done just as long as he can stop Chucky first. For good this time.
He's about to ask if the detective knows where they should start when he sees the man's spaced out on him again, staring intently off at something only he can see, and this time Andy waits for him to finish whatever it is that he's doing. He counts the seconds off in his head and stands at attention to keep himself from shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Did you find him?" Andy asks anxiously once the detective's eyes are focused back down on him again.
A fraction of a second passes in silence, just long enough for him to wonder if he didn't just make a terrible mistake, and then his instinct is vindicated as he feels that iron grip around his neck let go, freeing him to stand up straight again. His reaction is immediate; he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck gingerly and pivots so he's facing the officer, peering up at that still-impassive face.
Was he hoping just now it had been another cop that had collared him? Boy, he couldn't have been more wrong about that.
"50 yards. Got it," Andy agrees, and quickly amends, "I mean, no problem. Understood. Sir."
Andy can't hide his relief and doesn't bother trying; he doesn't even care if the detective arrests him after this is all said and done just as long as he can stop Chucky first. For good this time.
He's about to ask if the detective knows where they should start when he sees the man's spaced out on him again, staring intently off at something only he can see, and this time Andy waits for him to finish whatever it is that he's doing. He counts the seconds off in his head and stands at attention to keep himself from shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Did you find him?" Andy asks anxiously once the detective's eyes are focused back down on him again.
To answer the question, Alex simply wheels around on one foot and starts walking. It’s as good a “yes” as any. Besides, he expected Mr. Barclay to keep up while he’s in custody.
Alex leads them over to a motorcycle parked against the curb, black, sleek, all elegant lines from the frame to the magnetic locks and the wheels. There isn’t another vehicle like it on the force and luckily – or unluckily – for Andy, there’s room for one more. If he scoots behind the cyborg and holds on for dear life, which is the best advice Alex can give him because there aren’t any seatbelts. As he understands it, a healthy self-preservation response on Andy’s part (AKA a deathgrip) will work just fine. Marching over, Alex swings his leg over the motorcycle in one easy motion, one arm slipping onto the magnetic locks with a thunk-hiss. His head shifts to face the kid.
“Get on.” The visor snaps down, Alex's mouth barely moving. “And don’t fall off.”
He leans forward, the rest of his body locking into place as he gets ready to gun the engine. His HUD lights up with a simulated route to the hotel where they’ve moved some of the items to be auctioned. Some of them have just flown in and haven’t had a chance yet to be properly stored. They will check there first, verify if this Good Guy doll is this “Chucky” and – and then Alex doesn’t even know. He can’t exactly arrest a damn doll as a serial killer.
It probably would've been easier to arrest the kid first.
Alex leads them over to a motorcycle parked against the curb, black, sleek, all elegant lines from the frame to the magnetic locks and the wheels. There isn’t another vehicle like it on the force and luckily – or unluckily – for Andy, there’s room for one more. If he scoots behind the cyborg and holds on for dear life, which is the best advice Alex can give him because there aren’t any seatbelts. As he understands it, a healthy self-preservation response on Andy’s part (AKA a deathgrip) will work just fine. Marching over, Alex swings his leg over the motorcycle in one easy motion, one arm slipping onto the magnetic locks with a thunk-hiss. His head shifts to face the kid.
“Get on.” The visor snaps down, Alex's mouth barely moving. “And don’t fall off.”
He leans forward, the rest of his body locking into place as he gets ready to gun the engine. His HUD lights up with a simulated route to the hotel where they’ve moved some of the items to be auctioned. Some of them have just flown in and haven’t had a chance yet to be properly stored. They will check there first, verify if this Good Guy doll is this “Chucky” and – and then Alex doesn’t even know. He can’t exactly arrest a damn doll as a serial killer.
It probably would've been easier to arrest the kid first.
"... I guess I'll take that as a yes." Andy hurries to catch up to the detective, his boots pounding across the pavement.
Given his prior run-ins with the law, he's expecting to be taken to a squad car, if maybe a souped-up one styled in the same fashion as the detective's armor. So when he steps out from behind that hulking frame just ahead of him and sees the vehicle they're headed towards isn't a car at all, but a motorcycle instead, he can't help but do a double-take. It's definitely modeled in the same style as the armor all right, jet-black and sleek in that way that you just know had to cost a fortune. It also looks just large enough to seat one more passenger in addition to its obvious intended rider.
Lucky him.
"Sir yes sir." If ever there was ever an order he's happy to follow, that's the one. Climbing up onto the bike, he glances over his shoulder to see where he should brace his feet before wrapping his arms around the officer's midsection in a grip that's pretty much as tight as he can manage. It doesn't feel like it should - whatever the armor's made out of, it's really something, because he can't even budge it no matter how hard he squeezes. How the detective manages to get in and out of it he can't even begin to guess.
Working up his courage, Andy leans over the detective's shoulder as he's about to gun the engine. "Do you have a name I can call you, or should I just stick with 'sir'?"
Given his prior run-ins with the law, he's expecting to be taken to a squad car, if maybe a souped-up one styled in the same fashion as the detective's armor. So when he steps out from behind that hulking frame just ahead of him and sees the vehicle they're headed towards isn't a car at all, but a motorcycle instead, he can't help but do a double-take. It's definitely modeled in the same style as the armor all right, jet-black and sleek in that way that you just know had to cost a fortune. It also looks just large enough to seat one more passenger in addition to its obvious intended rider.
Lucky him.
"Sir yes sir." If ever there was ever an order he's happy to follow, that's the one. Climbing up onto the bike, he glances over his shoulder to see where he should brace his feet before wrapping his arms around the officer's midsection in a grip that's pretty much as tight as he can manage. It doesn't feel like it should - whatever the armor's made out of, it's really something, because he can't even budge it no matter how hard he squeezes. How the detective manages to get in and out of it he can't even begin to guess.
Working up his courage, Andy leans over the detective's shoulder as he's about to gun the engine. "Do you have a name I can call you, or should I just stick with 'sir'?"
Alex’s head shifts slightly. “Detective or Murphy. Don’t call me ‘sir’.”
The C-1 roars into life as it takes off down the road, Alex following the selected route as the wind howls around them. Cars flash by. He darts between a bus pulling out into the lane and slides between the gap between it and the car opposite. His HUD shows him updates on traffic, construction, any recent accidents, and he adjusts accordingly. It’s probably the safest motorcycle ride in the world because there isn’t human error involved, Alex silent and almost unmoving in front of Andy. There’s a brief impression of seeing cars, people, buildings blurring together. Alex takes the on-ramp fast, leans into the turn. Eventually he comes to a stop outside a sprawling hotel, the kickstand ejecting down.
“Here it is.” Alex looks down, unlocks Andy’s hands from their death grip around his stomach – what used to be his stomach – and steps off the C-1. Awhile ago, a grip like that would’ve made it hard to breathe, even from some kid. Now it’s barely noticeable.
He starts walking to the front door without checking over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
He’s not worried about someone trying to steal the bike. There had been a few attempts and they all leaned the same thing: you don’t touch OmniCorp’s stuff. Ever. His visor hisses up as he accesses the schematics from last year, elevator inspection logs. Everything is in working order. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. No reports about killer dolls. (Killer ugly dolls because even if he’s a cyborg, Alex reserves the right to think these things are damn ugly).
The C-1 roars into life as it takes off down the road, Alex following the selected route as the wind howls around them. Cars flash by. He darts between a bus pulling out into the lane and slides between the gap between it and the car opposite. His HUD shows him updates on traffic, construction, any recent accidents, and he adjusts accordingly. It’s probably the safest motorcycle ride in the world because there isn’t human error involved, Alex silent and almost unmoving in front of Andy. There’s a brief impression of seeing cars, people, buildings blurring together. Alex takes the on-ramp fast, leans into the turn. Eventually he comes to a stop outside a sprawling hotel, the kickstand ejecting down.
“Here it is.” Alex looks down, unlocks Andy’s hands from their death grip around his stomach – what used to be his stomach – and steps off the C-1. Awhile ago, a grip like that would’ve made it hard to breathe, even from some kid. Now it’s barely noticeable.
He starts walking to the front door without checking over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
He’s not worried about someone trying to steal the bike. There had been a few attempts and they all leaned the same thing: you don’t touch OmniCorp’s stuff. Ever. His visor hisses up as he accesses the schematics from last year, elevator inspection logs. Everything is in working order. No signs of anything out of the ordinary. No reports about killer dolls. (Killer ugly dolls because even if he’s a cyborg, Alex reserves the right to think these things are damn ugly).
Andy's head bobs once, and he looks relieved. "Yessir. Sorry. Murphy."
And then they're off, and it's a good thing Mr. Murphy's armor is so tough, because he's sure he'd be choking the air out of the man's lugs if he were just in street clothes. Andy's never ridden a motorcycle at all before, let alone one as fast as this, and it's terrifying and exhilirating all at once. The wind whips through his close-cropped hair and vehicles streak by on either side, little more than flashes of shape and color at the speed they're going. For a kid who's never ridden anything faster than a bicycle and never been on any thrill rides in his life (barring the one he climbed a few weeks ago), it's nothing short of insane. He yells and braces himself against the detective's stiff frame when they veer between a bus and an angry-looking Volkswagen, and for a second there Andy's sure they're going to be crushed. But Murphy speeds them both out of harm's way as nonchalantly as you please.
Needless to say, Andy's just a tad bit ruffled by the time they reach their destination. Murphy has to pry his hands loose and he doesn't so much climb down from the C1 as he stumbles down, bracing himself against the bike with one hand while he gets his bearings.
Naturally, the detective doesn't even give him a chance to catch his breath, instead heading for the front doors without missing a beat. Andy scrambles to catch up to him. "Hey, wait up!"
Once he's caught up he starts glancing around, familiarizing himself with his surroundings. If Murphy is still monitoring his movements, he'll notice Andy's gaze shifting to the doors, then the windows -- he looks like he's casing the building. In a way, he is. Old habits die hard; he learned at a young age the importance of knowing how to get in and out of places in a hurry. The building's old and seen better days, and Andy can't help but feel uneasy staring up at it. Chucky's first murder (that he knows about) was his aunt, and he pushed her out the window of a building not too different from this one.
He shakes it off and glances back over to Murphy. silently wondering how the hotel's staff are going to react to the armor-clad officer about to enter their midst. "Did you see where they're keeping him, when you did that... that thing you did?"
And then they're off, and it's a good thing Mr. Murphy's armor is so tough, because he's sure he'd be choking the air out of the man's lugs if he were just in street clothes. Andy's never ridden a motorcycle at all before, let alone one as fast as this, and it's terrifying and exhilirating all at once. The wind whips through his close-cropped hair and vehicles streak by on either side, little more than flashes of shape and color at the speed they're going. For a kid who's never ridden anything faster than a bicycle and never been on any thrill rides in his life (barring the one he climbed a few weeks ago), it's nothing short of insane. He yells and braces himself against the detective's stiff frame when they veer between a bus and an angry-looking Volkswagen, and for a second there Andy's sure they're going to be crushed. But Murphy speeds them both out of harm's way as nonchalantly as you please.
Needless to say, Andy's just a tad bit ruffled by the time they reach their destination. Murphy has to pry his hands loose and he doesn't so much climb down from the C1 as he stumbles down, bracing himself against the bike with one hand while he gets his bearings.
Naturally, the detective doesn't even give him a chance to catch his breath, instead heading for the front doors without missing a beat. Andy scrambles to catch up to him. "Hey, wait up!"
Once he's caught up he starts glancing around, familiarizing himself with his surroundings. If Murphy is still monitoring his movements, he'll notice Andy's gaze shifting to the doors, then the windows -- he looks like he's casing the building. In a way, he is. Old habits die hard; he learned at a young age the importance of knowing how to get in and out of places in a hurry. The building's old and seen better days, and Andy can't help but feel uneasy staring up at it. Chucky's first murder (that he knows about) was his aunt, and he pushed her out the window of a building not too different from this one.
He shakes it off and glances back over to Murphy. silently wondering how the hotel's staff are going to react to the armor-clad officer about to enter their midst. "Did you see where they're keeping him, when you did that... that thing you did?"
Somehow Alex isn’t surprised she doesn’t have a last name. But she does give him a name and before she even finishes speaking, he’s already looking up Aperture Science. It’s an older company, founded in the 1940s (Johnson, Cave). History of scientific breakthroughs that made them…attractive to OCP. Anything involving AI, though, was strangely registered classified, even to him. News reports. Mostly tabloid. But sometimes tabloids could hit the truth every now and then, and they were talking about test subjects, people vanishing. High-tech robots, before modern drones really stepped into their own. Aperture Science might’ve been a threat once to OmniCorp if they hadn’t imploded on themselves.
Filing that away, Alex focused on the immediate problem at hand: this woman and her paranoia about his intentions.
“Believe me, it's not a test,” Alex says, the slightest frown creasing his face. He continued to add to her new file as he talked. “Who’s 'she'?”
Does she believe she’s under duress? If someone’s following her, then it’d be safer to take Chell into custody than letting her take chances out here.
Filing that away, Alex focused on the immediate problem at hand: this woman and her paranoia about his intentions.
“Believe me, it's not a test,” Alex says, the slightest frown creasing his face. He continued to add to her new file as he talked. “Who’s 'she'?”
Does she believe she’s under duress? If someone’s following her, then it’d be safer to take Chell into custody than letting her take chances out here.
"She...runs it. Perpetual testing." It suddenly occurs to Chell that in her time with Wheatley, no matter how brief it was, he only referred to her as...her. "Genetic Lifeform and Disc Operating System." She rattles it off, remembering seeing it on a file at some point. Which is when she remembers a small, sweet voice (that sounded like all of its twins voices before a small red light would track her or a hail of bullets came her way) telling her 'Her name is Caroline. Remember that.' and the once mighty AI reduced to living off of a potato battery reciting the same lines as Cave Johnson's beloved assistant. And then apparently deleting the last vestiges of the woman she had been made from as soon as she was plugged back into her chassis. "Caroline. Her name is...was....Caroline. I don't know the last name. She worked for..." Chell screws up her face, as if to say 'Really? Someone named their kid that?' "...Cave Johnson. His assistant. They uploaded her."
The fact that this isn't a test is finally starting to really sink in. And a little part of her wants to trust him, because she's tired of running. Of looking over her shoulder. But at the same time, she put so much trust and faith into Wheatley and he betrayed her (and it still hurts her to think about him a little bit), even if it wasn't completely his fault.
But if this isn't a test, that means this thing...man...followed her somehow. "If this isn't a test and she didn't send you, why did you come after me?"
The fact that this isn't a test is finally starting to really sink in. And a little part of her wants to trust him, because she's tired of running. Of looking over her shoulder. But at the same time, she put so much trust and faith into Wheatley and he betrayed her (and it still hurts her to think about him a little bit), even if it wasn't completely his fault.
But if this isn't a test, that means this thing...man...followed her somehow. "If this isn't a test and she didn't send you, why did you come after me?"
Edited (forgot some deets) 2014-03-06 09:48 (UTC)
Alex’s idea of waiting is to (slightly) shorten his stride. He shifts slightly to make sure Andy’s well within his 50 yards (he is) and somehow it isn’t surprising to see the kid scoping out the place – from the way his eyes shift, Alex assumes he’s looking for fire exits, elevators, windows.
“I was accessing public records,” Alex says. It sounds so stiff when he says it like that, in that double-tone he’s asked Norton about fixing. “And no. Only that there’s a high probability this doll is in this building. We start the investigation here.”
CCTV feeds didn’t say anything either: luggage came and went, people came and went and most of them didn’t register as suspects in criminal activity. His head turns toward the front desk across the scuffed tiled lobby, the rest of Alex’s body following in that stiff-but-smooth motion of his that never quite looks human. From the looks on the staff faces, they know exactly who he is. Most of them stand a little straighter – all of them are careful to keep their hands where he could see them and there are no sudden movements. Alex marches over, his footsteps drowning out the lighter ones from Andy.
“I will be inspecting and interrogating your guests. Please inform them that their cooperation would be appreciated”
Somehow the way Alex drops the word “appreciated” makes it sound ominous, less of a gesture of goodwill and more borderline threat. He doesn’t offer the why and the staff don’t expect it. Not with RoboCop’s track record. Whirring, he turns on his heel and heads for the elevator, expecting Andy in tow. If he has any questions, it’d be better to ask while they’re going up to the tenth floor to start "interrogations".
“I was accessing public records,” Alex says. It sounds so stiff when he says it like that, in that double-tone he’s asked Norton about fixing. “And no. Only that there’s a high probability this doll is in this building. We start the investigation here.”
CCTV feeds didn’t say anything either: luggage came and went, people came and went and most of them didn’t register as suspects in criminal activity. His head turns toward the front desk across the scuffed tiled lobby, the rest of Alex’s body following in that stiff-but-smooth motion of his that never quite looks human. From the looks on the staff faces, they know exactly who he is. Most of them stand a little straighter – all of them are careful to keep their hands where he could see them and there are no sudden movements. Alex marches over, his footsteps drowning out the lighter ones from Andy.
“I will be inspecting and interrogating your guests. Please inform them that their cooperation would be appreciated”
Somehow the way Alex drops the word “appreciated” makes it sound ominous, less of a gesture of goodwill and more borderline threat. He doesn’t offer the why and the staff don’t expect it. Not with RoboCop’s track record. Whirring, he turns on his heel and heads for the elevator, expecting Andy in tow. If he has any questions, it’d be better to ask while they’re going up to the tenth floor to start "interrogations".
"Oh," Andy responds, and for a moment there's an awkward silence while he fumbles for something else to say. Conversation has never been his strong suit – typically, he's the type to listen and let the other people in the room do the talking. Clearly, he's going to have to be a little more proactive about it as long as he's in the detective's custody. "Okay then. Understood."
From the moment they cross the threshold - Murphy in the lead, advancing on the receptionist's desk in that inexorable gait of his, and Andy trailing a few steps behind - they're the focus of every person in the lobby. No, he corrects himself silently – Murphy's the focus of every person in the lobby. They don't even notice or care about the kid tagging along behind him. There's a stunned awe on their faces, and on the wiser ones, fear, but there's also something else, something that takes Andy by surprise - recognition. These people might not have been expecting Murphy, but they know who he is. They've seen him before.
The receptionist, a smartly-dressed young man with an incongrous bowl cut, is fetching something from under the desk when he hears the heavy tread of Murphy's steps. Rising to help the approaching guest, he pales when finds himself face-to-face (or face-to-chest, as the case may be) with Detroit's most famous police officer.
"Why... y-yes, of course!" The young man's only too quick to nod in nervous agreement, and Andy notes that he keeps his hands flat on the desk the whole time. "I'll notify them at once!"
That seems to be enough for Murphy, who pivots in that unsettling head-then-chest-then-waist way he moves towards the elevator and starts walking. Andy keeps pace with him now, having adjusted to the detective's predilection for moving without giving him a heads-up first, and tries not to look any of the lobby's occupants in the eye. Seeing their reactions to Murphy, he's relieved and guilty all at once to be leaving them behind.
The two of them step into the elevator, Murphy pressing the button for the tenth floor and Andy hanging back against the wall. It's not until the doors close and the elevator starts rising that he feels safe asking questions again.
"You're not going to just arrest everyone up there on the spot, are you?" He's almost certain that's not the plan, but he wants to make sure. That menacing tone Murphy took with the receptionist wasn't exactly reassuring.
From the moment they cross the threshold - Murphy in the lead, advancing on the receptionist's desk in that inexorable gait of his, and Andy trailing a few steps behind - they're the focus of every person in the lobby. No, he corrects himself silently – Murphy's the focus of every person in the lobby. They don't even notice or care about the kid tagging along behind him. There's a stunned awe on their faces, and on the wiser ones, fear, but there's also something else, something that takes Andy by surprise - recognition. These people might not have been expecting Murphy, but they know who he is. They've seen him before.
The receptionist, a smartly-dressed young man with an incongrous bowl cut, is fetching something from under the desk when he hears the heavy tread of Murphy's steps. Rising to help the approaching guest, he pales when finds himself face-to-face (or face-to-chest, as the case may be) with Detroit's most famous police officer.
"Why... y-yes, of course!" The young man's only too quick to nod in nervous agreement, and Andy notes that he keeps his hands flat on the desk the whole time. "I'll notify them at once!"
That seems to be enough for Murphy, who pivots in that unsettling head-then-chest-then-waist way he moves towards the elevator and starts walking. Andy keeps pace with him now, having adjusted to the detective's predilection for moving without giving him a heads-up first, and tries not to look any of the lobby's occupants in the eye. Seeing their reactions to Murphy, he's relieved and guilty all at once to be leaving them behind.
The two of them step into the elevator, Murphy pressing the button for the tenth floor and Andy hanging back against the wall. It's not until the doors close and the elevator starts rising that he feels safe asking questions again.
"You're not going to just arrest everyone up there on the spot, are you?" He's almost certain that's not the plan, but he wants to make sure. That menacing tone Murphy took with the receptionist wasn't exactly reassuring.
Despite being a minor and a suspected murder, Mr. Barclay asks a lot of questions. Alex finds himself almost liking the kid despite himself, despite the rap sheet and the stories about creepy killer dolls. (He’ll give him the creepy bit, to be fair). “That would be a waste of my time.”
He’d say it “wouldn’t be by the book” except things have changed in Detroit and the definition of legal feels like it shifts by the month. More surveillance, a wider, more vague definition of what counts as probable cause and warrants are already easier to get than he remembers only a few years ago. Alex’s head turns to the side, then down – the movement is segmented like everything else he does, divided up into smooth but still robotic motions. The gesture brings Andy further into his field of vision. The kid is leaning against the wall and it’s not entirely casual, either: it’s the body language of someone used to something ugly coming when the doors open, the body language of someone who doesn’t want to get attacked from behind.
Alex has seen that one too many times.
His eyebrows knit together before he looks forward. He can’t believe he’s doing this. There’s following hunches and there’s this. Following up leads from a suspect about evil dolls with serial killing as a hobby.
The elevator doors slide open as they reach the tenth floor. News travels fast: some of the doors are already open, hotel guests poking their heads out as Alex troops in. He pitches his voice so it’s louder, booming so even those still inside their rooms should get the message.
“Please remain in your rooms for individual interrogation. Cooperation is advised. Have a nice afternoon.”
That does the trick. Alex’s voice drops down to normal speaking levels, sounding a little bit more human now compared to his announcement as he turns back to Andy. The kid’s well within his allocated 50 yards. It’s like, Jesus. He thought he’d be at least testing the limits but Mr. Barclay is practically glued to his side now, as if he’s expecting that doll to come bursting through the walls or something any second.
“I’ll ask the questions. Don’t…” Alex actually sighs. “Don’t mention killer dolls, understand? Let me handle this.”
He stares at Andy until he’s satisfied with his biometrics that he’s got it before turning and opening that first door. Alex has to duck slightly to get through the door frame.
He’d say it “wouldn’t be by the book” except things have changed in Detroit and the definition of legal feels like it shifts by the month. More surveillance, a wider, more vague definition of what counts as probable cause and warrants are already easier to get than he remembers only a few years ago. Alex’s head turns to the side, then down – the movement is segmented like everything else he does, divided up into smooth but still robotic motions. The gesture brings Andy further into his field of vision. The kid is leaning against the wall and it’s not entirely casual, either: it’s the body language of someone used to something ugly coming when the doors open, the body language of someone who doesn’t want to get attacked from behind.
Alex has seen that one too many times.
His eyebrows knit together before he looks forward. He can’t believe he’s doing this. There’s following hunches and there’s this. Following up leads from a suspect about evil dolls with serial killing as a hobby.
The elevator doors slide open as they reach the tenth floor. News travels fast: some of the doors are already open, hotel guests poking their heads out as Alex troops in. He pitches his voice so it’s louder, booming so even those still inside their rooms should get the message.
“Please remain in your rooms for individual interrogation. Cooperation is advised. Have a nice afternoon.”
That does the trick. Alex’s voice drops down to normal speaking levels, sounding a little bit more human now compared to his announcement as he turns back to Andy. The kid’s well within his allocated 50 yards. It’s like, Jesus. He thought he’d be at least testing the limits but Mr. Barclay is practically glued to his side now, as if he’s expecting that doll to come bursting through the walls or something any second.
“I’ll ask the questions. Don’t…” Alex actually sighs. “Don’t mention killer dolls, understand? Let me handle this.”
He stares at Andy until he’s satisfied with his biometrics that he’s got it before turning and opening that first door. Alex has to duck slightly to get through the door frame.
There's a wry humor in Murphy's response that actually makes Andy smile for a moment; it's a smile that emerges slowly, as though it doesn't quite belong and he's not sure what to do with it. For a guy that can march in and scare a whole room into submission, the detective's really not that bad a guy. "Just making sure."
The tension in his frame ebbs, just a bit, but it doesn't go away. It never does.
He'd be surprised if he knew just how easily Murphy tagged him, though: learning how to look casual is a trick Andy thought he'd mastered by now. Being unmemorable, inconspicuous, the kid no one bothers to look at twice. Attention's only good for getting into trouble, he's found, whether it's trouble you've earned or trouble you haven't. So when the detective swivels his head to face him – an ordinary motion made surreal by the way it's broken up into two distinct actions - his own response is automatic The pensive corners of his mouth soften; the lines on his brow relax into a blandly polite expression. Nothing to see here, officer.
It only lasts as long as he's in Murphy's immediate field of vision; once he's not, he's back to worrying again. Worrying and kicking himself. So what if the detective's not entirely convinced yet? Who would be? He's lucky Murphy's even bothering to investigate this at all.
Andy stays where he is as the elevator doors slide open, waiting for Murphy to take the lead before following him out, and when he does he can't help but blink in surprise. The hallway before them is worn and dilapidated, a far cry from the clean and relatively modern-looking lobby. He starts to move towards the nearest door, expecting they'll be doing this one at a time, but Murphy's got other ideas.
Geez, that's loud! Andy's head whips around as Murphy's suddenly announcing orders through a megaphone – or what sounds like a megaphone, anyway. He's expecting to see some hitherto-unused facemask when he looks up at the detective, but to his shock, Murphy's mouth remains completely exposed. No megaphone, no surprise gadget from his helmet, and yet he's suddenly loud enough for what sounds like the whole building to hear. How did he just do that?!
If he's waiting for answers, there sure aren't any forthcoming. Murphy rotates back around to him again, and to his relief, the detective's voice is back to normal again. That doesn't stop him from looking or feeling any less, well, blown away, but he does manage a meek nod.
"Right." Leave this to the professional? That's a welcome change of pace. Not that Andy expects it to last, but he's certainly not going to argue. No, he's sticking good and close as Murphy swings the first door open and ducks inside.
The room, like all the rooms on this floor, is a suite, and its occupants are both standing behind the requisite coffee table. They're an older woman and a boy who looks only a few years older than Andy, and both of them look like they got dressed in a hurry. Records identify the woman as Paula Massey, 58, a civil attorney recently excoriated in a social media scandal. Her companion is identified as Maxwell Zeigler, 23, not currently employed or in college.
"What is the meaning of this, Officer?!" Mrs. Massey's cheeks are red with indignation, and Andy ducks back behind Murphy quickly when he sees her. "I'm no criminal! I am a senior practitioner!"
For his part, Maxwell just looks down at his bare feet, wearing an almost sheepish expression. He looks like a kid who got caught trying to steal cookies from the cookie jar.
The tension in his frame ebbs, just a bit, but it doesn't go away. It never does.
He'd be surprised if he knew just how easily Murphy tagged him, though: learning how to look casual is a trick Andy thought he'd mastered by now. Being unmemorable, inconspicuous, the kid no one bothers to look at twice. Attention's only good for getting into trouble, he's found, whether it's trouble you've earned or trouble you haven't. So when the detective swivels his head to face him – an ordinary motion made surreal by the way it's broken up into two distinct actions - his own response is automatic The pensive corners of his mouth soften; the lines on his brow relax into a blandly polite expression. Nothing to see here, officer.
It only lasts as long as he's in Murphy's immediate field of vision; once he's not, he's back to worrying again. Worrying and kicking himself. So what if the detective's not entirely convinced yet? Who would be? He's lucky Murphy's even bothering to investigate this at all.
Andy stays where he is as the elevator doors slide open, waiting for Murphy to take the lead before following him out, and when he does he can't help but blink in surprise. The hallway before them is worn and dilapidated, a far cry from the clean and relatively modern-looking lobby. He starts to move towards the nearest door, expecting they'll be doing this one at a time, but Murphy's got other ideas.
Geez, that's loud! Andy's head whips around as Murphy's suddenly announcing orders through a megaphone – or what sounds like a megaphone, anyway. He's expecting to see some hitherto-unused facemask when he looks up at the detective, but to his shock, Murphy's mouth remains completely exposed. No megaphone, no surprise gadget from his helmet, and yet he's suddenly loud enough for what sounds like the whole building to hear. How did he just do that?!
If he's waiting for answers, there sure aren't any forthcoming. Murphy rotates back around to him again, and to his relief, the detective's voice is back to normal again. That doesn't stop him from looking or feeling any less, well, blown away, but he does manage a meek nod.
"Right." Leave this to the professional? That's a welcome change of pace. Not that Andy expects it to last, but he's certainly not going to argue. No, he's sticking good and close as Murphy swings the first door open and ducks inside.
The room, like all the rooms on this floor, is a suite, and its occupants are both standing behind the requisite coffee table. They're an older woman and a boy who looks only a few years older than Andy, and both of them look like they got dressed in a hurry. Records identify the woman as Paula Massey, 58, a civil attorney recently excoriated in a social media scandal. Her companion is identified as Maxwell Zeigler, 23, not currently employed or in college.
"What is the meaning of this, Officer?!" Mrs. Massey's cheeks are red with indignation, and Andy ducks back behind Murphy quickly when he sees her. "I'm no criminal! I am a senior practitioner!"
For his part, Maxwell just looks down at his bare feet, wearing an almost sheepish expression. He looks like a kid who got caught trying to steal cookies from the cookie jar.
Edited (got my npcs mixed up there :|) 2014-03-09 23:45 (UTC)
Andy’s shadowing him like it’s Take Your Kid Suspect to Work Day, Alex aware of him even if he’s not facing the kid’s direction.
It only takes a second to mark both Massey, Paula and Zeigler, Mark: a civil attorney with smaller infractions like speeding and reckless driving and a pot dealer who dropped out of college because it was too expensive (fair enough). Luckily for Zeigler, they legalized marijuana years ago in Michigan. Both faces have tell-tale signs of blood flushing their cheeks, the biometric readings saying he’d interrupted…something that’s not all that hard to guess, even if most of Alex is mechanized and running on tech he barely understands half the time.
His eyes flick down to Zeigler’s jeans:
“Zip up,” Alex says flatly, as if they’re talking about the traffic. He shifts toward the attorney as Zeigler mumbles something about it’s not what it looks like, officer, zipping up so fast Alex is surprised he doesn’t catch something. Like her companion, Massey’s graying hair is swept back sloppily. “You are both of legal age and this is not an arrest. Sit down, answer my questions and we’ll be finished here.”
Alex holds out his hand and any other time the gesture would’ve been sarcastic – right now it’s just functional, a rotation of his wrist joint. He means you too, Andy. She’s just a civil attorney, Alex wants to say, and trust me, they don’t bite (all the time). Besides, he can guess who she’s been biting recently, Zeigler too shell-shocked by a visit from RoboCop and…intern(?) that he doesn’t cover up the angry red hickies on his neck.
Alex waits for everyone to get seated before he stands near the coffee table. Zeigler and Massey sit separated by 2.5 feet of empty air, the man’s hands wrapped around him as if he expects to get arrested (he kept shooting suspicious stares at Mr. Barclay), Massey adjusting her expensive blouse that she hasn’t had a chance to dry clean yet.
“Have you noticed any disturbances?” Alex pauses, head canted as he accesses Andy’s witness statements for reference. “Screams or strange shadows you can’t explain moving. It would be about this high.”
He holds up his flesh hand at the exact height of a Good Guy doll – there’s no such thing as yay-high when you’re as precise as inhumanly possible.
It only takes a second to mark both Massey, Paula and Zeigler, Mark: a civil attorney with smaller infractions like speeding and reckless driving and a pot dealer who dropped out of college because it was too expensive (fair enough). Luckily for Zeigler, they legalized marijuana years ago in Michigan. Both faces have tell-tale signs of blood flushing their cheeks, the biometric readings saying he’d interrupted…something that’s not all that hard to guess, even if most of Alex is mechanized and running on tech he barely understands half the time.
His eyes flick down to Zeigler’s jeans:
“Zip up,” Alex says flatly, as if they’re talking about the traffic. He shifts toward the attorney as Zeigler mumbles something about it’s not what it looks like, officer, zipping up so fast Alex is surprised he doesn’t catch something. Like her companion, Massey’s graying hair is swept back sloppily. “You are both of legal age and this is not an arrest. Sit down, answer my questions and we’ll be finished here.”
Alex holds out his hand and any other time the gesture would’ve been sarcastic – right now it’s just functional, a rotation of his wrist joint. He means you too, Andy. She’s just a civil attorney, Alex wants to say, and trust me, they don’t bite (all the time). Besides, he can guess who she’s been biting recently, Zeigler too shell-shocked by a visit from RoboCop and…intern(?) that he doesn’t cover up the angry red hickies on his neck.
Alex waits for everyone to get seated before he stands near the coffee table. Zeigler and Massey sit separated by 2.5 feet of empty air, the man’s hands wrapped around him as if he expects to get arrested (he kept shooting suspicious stares at Mr. Barclay), Massey adjusting her expensive blouse that she hasn’t had a chance to dry clean yet.
“Have you noticed any disturbances?” Alex pauses, head canted as he accesses Andy’s witness statements for reference. “Screams or strange shadows you can’t explain moving. It would be about this high.”
He holds up his flesh hand at the exact height of a Good Guy doll – there’s no such thing as yay-high when you’re as precise as inhumanly possible.
Edited 2014-03-11 05:24 (UTC)
Ths is all brand new territory for Andy, and that's keeping him glued to Murphy's side at least as much as the ever-present threat of Chucky now. The detective might laugh at him if he knew, but he'd much rather fend off a killer doll than go from door to door interrogating the hotel's guests like this. At least that's something he's got experience in.
"Do you know who I am?" Ever the firebrand, Mrs. Massey is the first to recover from RoboCop's unwelcome intrusion. She takes an aggressive stance, one that's no doubt served her long and well in the courts, while her young companion practices his catching-flies pose. Finding himself briefly in the sights of Detroit's super-cop, young master Zeigler looks even more like a deer in the headlights than Andy had earlier, and he fumbles at his zipper frantically, avoiding a painful experience only by dumb luck.
The pacifying reassurance has the right effect on Massey, and she shoots her youthful paramour a warning glare. "Do as he says, Max," she tells him, pulling out a chair and not looking away from Max until he's done the same. The boy's eyes are bloodshot, and he blinks twice before the message sinks in and he does the same. Taking the hint, Andy steps out from behind Murphy and reluctantly takes a seat as well.
This proves almost too much for Mr. Zeigler to swallow, but another death glare from Mrs. Massey is enough to cut him off before he opens his mouth. He sullenly holds his tongue and settles for muttering under his breath and mean-mugging RoboCop's little sidekick when he thinks he's getting away with. For his part, Andy mostly just tries to ignore him.
Folding her arms, Mrs. Massey raises one well-manicured eyebrow at the question and gives the officer a little titter. "'Screams'? 'Strange shadows'? Officer, this is the Waldorf, not the Overlook." She offers a practiced pause, expecting the usual obedient barks of (faked) appreciation from her companion. Unfortunately for her, Zeigler is too busy trying to process the sudden onslaught of questions to properly compliment her wit.
"How about anyone with a really creepy laugh?" Andy blurts the question before he can stop himself, before he remembers that Murphy told him to stay quiet and let him handle asking the questions. He swallows nervously as he finds himself the focus of both the guests now, but soldiers on regardless. "It'd sound, um, a little like this."
Andy's mimicry of the screeching laugh he remembers isn't perfect, but it's enough to earn him stares from both Massey and Zeigler. Naturally, Zeigler is the first to comment.
"Man, why are you even here?" He jerks his head in RoboCop's direction. "We gotta answer questions from him. Last time I checked, MC Flattop, I didn't have to tell you shit."
"Do you know who I am?" Ever the firebrand, Mrs. Massey is the first to recover from RoboCop's unwelcome intrusion. She takes an aggressive stance, one that's no doubt served her long and well in the courts, while her young companion practices his catching-flies pose. Finding himself briefly in the sights of Detroit's super-cop, young master Zeigler looks even more like a deer in the headlights than Andy had earlier, and he fumbles at his zipper frantically, avoiding a painful experience only by dumb luck.
The pacifying reassurance has the right effect on Massey, and she shoots her youthful paramour a warning glare. "Do as he says, Max," she tells him, pulling out a chair and not looking away from Max until he's done the same. The boy's eyes are bloodshot, and he blinks twice before the message sinks in and he does the same. Taking the hint, Andy steps out from behind Murphy and reluctantly takes a seat as well.
This proves almost too much for Mr. Zeigler to swallow, but another death glare from Mrs. Massey is enough to cut him off before he opens his mouth. He sullenly holds his tongue and settles for muttering under his breath and mean-mugging RoboCop's little sidekick when he thinks he's getting away with. For his part, Andy mostly just tries to ignore him.
Folding her arms, Mrs. Massey raises one well-manicured eyebrow at the question and gives the officer a little titter. "'Screams'? 'Strange shadows'? Officer, this is the Waldorf, not the Overlook." She offers a practiced pause, expecting the usual obedient barks of (faked) appreciation from her companion. Unfortunately for her, Zeigler is too busy trying to process the sudden onslaught of questions to properly compliment her wit.
"How about anyone with a really creepy laugh?" Andy blurts the question before he can stop himself, before he remembers that Murphy told him to stay quiet and let him handle asking the questions. He swallows nervously as he finds himself the focus of both the guests now, but soldiers on regardless. "It'd sound, um, a little like this."
Andy's mimicry of the screeching laugh he remembers isn't perfect, but it's enough to earn him stares from both Massey and Zeigler. Naturally, Zeigler is the first to comment.
"Man, why are you even here?" He jerks his head in RoboCop's direction. "We gotta answer questions from him. Last time I checked, MC Flattop, I didn't have to tell you shit."
Yes, clearly it's his system having a little malfunction or two, and absolutely no other reason whatsoever. Like an alien masquerading as a human, for instance. Because that will be silly.
"I'm a journalist with the Daily Planet, investigating those accidents. This is the first time I've heard of questions. Do you have a warrant?"
Clark's tone of voice suggests he's read a few things about the legal system. Or watched a few Law & Order marathons. (Or both).
"I'm a journalist with the Daily Planet, investigating those accidents. This is the first time I've heard of questions. Do you have a warrant?"
Clark's tone of voice suggests he's read a few things about the legal system. Or watched a few Law & Order marathons. (Or both).
Alex’s face remains blank at the blustering and it’s one of those very few, very select times he’s glad he has a hell of a poker face. Back when he was capable of undercover work, you didn’t want to look too cool because it made you stand out in the worst ways: sometimes blowing your gasket and letting things like annoyance and fear cross your face bought trust. Let them know you’re as human as they are. This isn’t one of those cases. Alex knows these types: they sniff anything, they get louder and more in your face. So he presents Massey with his very best I’m this side of uncanny valley looks. Just stares. Holds the stare. Lets her break eye contact first with his silence. People don't know if they should treat him as a man or a machine and Alex admits he milks it sometime. Tells himself it's not a subroutine dictating that as the best course of action.
“I’m aware of your records, Mrs. Massey. Good thing adultery isn’t a crime,” Alex can’t resist that one. She’s supposed to be happily married but her husband is double this kid’s age and he didn’t miss the fact her ring is on the end table instead of her finger. Massey pales, licking her lips. “Answer the questions.”
This is where Andy comes in with a creepy laugh, this high pitched screech that somehow sends a shiver up Alex’s partial spine. His head actually shifts a few centimeters toward the kid, his mouth pressed into its normal line while Massey and Zeigler look like Alex took their luggage and threw it out the window.
Alex turns to Zeigler, his voice still that flat neutral tone that always gets perps nervous – and he didn’t even have to tase them. “Answer the questions. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Zeigler swallows, his eyes darting to Andy as if he doesn’t trust him (he doesn’t) and he’s probably worried about this getting out.
“Uh, yeah, sure thing, Officer. The other night, around the stairs,” Zeigler says, mumbling.
Massey cuts in, tilting her chin haughtily. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I was, um. I was out there having a smoke.”
“You said you were quitting - ”
Alex cuts in. “When?”
“Midnight? I dunno, does it matter?”
He swivels his head, then his torso toward Andy, giving him his full attention. He’s the only one here who knows what this Chucky sounds like, his habits. The fact he’s treating this like a real case blows his mind because it’d be one thing if he was full-human, going on hunches. It’s different when most of him is a chassis and programming warring with that funny hunch business. “Well?”
“I’m aware of your records, Mrs. Massey. Good thing adultery isn’t a crime,” Alex can’t resist that one. She’s supposed to be happily married but her husband is double this kid’s age and he didn’t miss the fact her ring is on the end table instead of her finger. Massey pales, licking her lips. “Answer the questions.”
This is where Andy comes in with a creepy laugh, this high pitched screech that somehow sends a shiver up Alex’s partial spine. His head actually shifts a few centimeters toward the kid, his mouth pressed into its normal line while Massey and Zeigler look like Alex took their luggage and threw it out the window.
Alex turns to Zeigler, his voice still that flat neutral tone that always gets perps nervous – and he didn’t even have to tase them. “Answer the questions. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Zeigler swallows, his eyes darting to Andy as if he doesn’t trust him (he doesn’t) and he’s probably worried about this getting out.
“Uh, yeah, sure thing, Officer. The other night, around the stairs,” Zeigler says, mumbling.
Massey cuts in, tilting her chin haughtily. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I was, um. I was out there having a smoke.”
“You said you were quitting - ”
Alex cuts in. “When?”
“Midnight? I dunno, does it matter?”
He swivels his head, then his torso toward Andy, giving him his full attention. He’s the only one here who knows what this Chucky sounds like, his habits. The fact he’s treating this like a real case blows his mind because it’d be one thing if he was full-human, going on hunches. It’s different when most of him is a chassis and programming warring with that funny hunch business. “Well?”
Edited 2014-03-14 07:56 (UTC)
Page 3 of 4