turn and face the strange (around the colony) [It’s starts after the ceremony. After the blessing, to be specific. Though Alan hadn’t understood most of what the Lamaria cleric had said, the words have nonetheless left him feeling strangely off-kilter. He spends the rest of the evening feeling like he’s bracing for something, though what that something is, he can’t be sure.
He doesn’t have to wonder for long.
It starts as a wave of dizziness, easy enough to ignore at first, but quickly escalating to the point where he makes himself stop, one hand braced against a wall, to wait for the ground to stop pitching beneath him. His mind reaches for an explanation, remembers how most of the crew had been drugged on the last planet -- and then abruptly shuts off, all thought suspended as effectively as if he had taken an icepick to the forehead. He stays stalled, one hand still braced against the wall, for several seconds before thought returns. Only, it's not what it was.
Data and associated tags filter in, first registering visual input error, as prim and matter-of-fact as a message on a computer screen. Alan blinks, noticing the blur overlaying his vision, and after a moment of uncertainty, reaches for his glasses. His hand makes it about halfway there before he stops, staring. His hand is glowing. At least, part of it is, a stripe of light stretching down the back of his wrist to branch down into his first two fingers, burning an all-too-familiar gold.
Circuits. The sight of them makes less than no sense. Info tags slot helpfully into place, indicating [sensory input] [energy exchange] [function declaration], none answering the question of why they’re there in the first place. He scrubs at the back of his hand as if that might make the glowing lines disappear, frowning when they remain just as bright and solid as before.
There must be something wrong. He must be hallucinating or dreaming or simply misunderstanding what’s happening, because humans don't have circuits. All of this might make sense if he were a program, but he’s quite sure he’s not--
A pause. Alan takes a deep breath and then, reluctantly, reaches back. His hand finds the curved edge of a disk, right where it should be.
He exhales, and removes his glasses, no longer completely surprised to find that his vision is now clear -- perfect even -- without them. He looks at the glowing circuitry on the back of his hand, lines even sharper than they had been before. After a moment, he lowers his hand and mutters a single word under his breath.]
Shit.
ch-ch-changes (science department, moira) [For the most part, Alan does his best to hide the transformation. His coat thrown over his uniform hides the outline of his disk and most of the glowing circuitry, save that on his hands. The only reasonable remedy he’s found for the latter is keeping his hands safely hidden in his pockets -- it’s at least less conspicuous than gloves would be.
The disk, he knows, is the most dangerous piece of the transformation. Losing it would very literally mean losing his mind, and having it fall into someone else’s hands… well, suffice to say Alan’s been having trouble keeping his back to people ever since he received the Lamaria’s blessing. Still, it’s only a matter of time before his curiosity outweighs his caution.
He waits until after-hours in the science department, feigning concentration on the computer screen in front of him until the last of his crewmates have left. Then it’s simply a matter of reaching back and detaching the disk from its place. Resting on the desk in front of him, it could be any program’s. That is, until he lays a hand on it and the central ring lights up an unmistakeable yellow.
The twinge of discomfort that follows isn’t just from the color. What little experience Alan has had with disks has been consistently unpleasant and the concept of manipulating someone’s very being with code still unsettles him. He tries to brush off his uneasiness; it’s his disk -- he isn’t hurting anyone by taking a look.
A thought is all it takes, and motes of light pour from the disk’s center. They swirl above it for a moment before clustering into a defined shape: a smaller reflection of Alan himself, picked out in midair.]
Alan Bradley | Program | OTA
[It’s starts after the ceremony. After the blessing, to be specific. Though Alan hadn’t understood most of what the Lamaria cleric had said, the words have nonetheless left him feeling strangely off-kilter. He spends the rest of the evening feeling like he’s bracing for something, though what that something is, he can’t be sure.
He doesn’t have to wonder for long.
It starts as a wave of dizziness, easy enough to ignore at first, but quickly escalating to the point where he makes himself stop, one hand braced against a wall, to wait for the ground to stop pitching beneath him. His mind reaches for an explanation, remembers how most of the crew had been drugged on the last planet -- and then abruptly shuts off, all thought suspended as effectively as if he had taken an icepick to the forehead. He stays stalled, one hand still braced against the wall, for several seconds before thought returns. Only, it's not what it was.
Data and associated tags filter in, first registering visual input error, as prim and matter-of-fact as a message on a computer screen. Alan blinks, noticing the blur overlaying his vision, and after a moment of uncertainty, reaches for his glasses. His hand makes it about halfway there before he stops, staring. His hand is glowing. At least, part of it is, a stripe of light stretching down the back of his wrist to branch down into his first two fingers, burning an all-too-familiar gold.
Circuits. The sight of them makes less than no sense. Info tags slot helpfully into place, indicating [sensory input] [energy exchange] [function declaration], none answering the question of why they’re there in the first place. He scrubs at the back of his hand as if that might make the glowing lines disappear, frowning when they remain just as bright and solid as before.
There must be something wrong. He must be hallucinating or dreaming or simply misunderstanding what’s happening, because humans don't have circuits. All of this might make sense if he were a program, but he’s quite sure he’s not--
A pause. Alan takes a deep breath and then, reluctantly, reaches back. His hand finds the curved edge of a disk, right where it should be.
He exhales, and removes his glasses, no longer completely surprised to find that his vision is now clear -- perfect even -- without them. He looks at the glowing circuitry on the back of his hand, lines even sharper than they had been before. After a moment, he lowers his hand and mutters a single word under his breath.]
Shit.
ch-ch-changes (science department, moira)
[For the most part, Alan does his best to hide the transformation. His coat thrown over his uniform hides the outline of his disk and most of the glowing circuitry, save that on his hands. The only reasonable remedy he’s found for the latter is keeping his hands safely hidden in his pockets -- it’s at least less conspicuous than gloves would be.
The disk, he knows, is the most dangerous piece of the transformation. Losing it would very literally mean losing his mind, and having it fall into someone else’s hands… well, suffice to say Alan’s been having trouble keeping his back to people ever since he received the Lamaria’s blessing. Still, it’s only a matter of time before his curiosity outweighs his caution.
He waits until after-hours in the science department, feigning concentration on the computer screen in front of him until the last of his crewmates have left. Then it’s simply a matter of reaching back and detaching the disk from its place. Resting on the desk in front of him, it could be any program’s. That is, until he lays a hand on it and the central ring lights up an unmistakeable yellow.
The twinge of discomfort that follows isn’t just from the color. What little experience Alan has had with disks has been consistently unpleasant and the concept of manipulating someone’s very being with code still unsettles him. He tries to brush off his uneasiness; it’s his disk -- he isn’t hurting anyone by taking a look.
A thought is all it takes, and motes of light pour from the disk’s center. They swirl above it for a moment before clustering into a defined shape: a smaller reflection of Alan himself, picked out in midair.]