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communicate & protect
"The best way to protect something is to set it free."
Since the Moira has arrived on Ceta, things have been (mostly) quiet considering their usual stay on planets before it. The only cruelty about this one is the fact they hunt for both sport and gain, and the creatures of Ceta do not have a voice—or intelligence to defend themselves. However, as the crew of the ship will come to learn, this is an elaborate lie. With the previous problem of the MID malfunctioning, and causing a bit of a miscommunication fiasco, finally solved, it is apparent that whatever had been wrong with this technology had slowly begun to affect the crew prior to exploring Ceta. Only in subtle, unnoticed ways.
With everything beginning to run a little more smoothly, a shift in the air overtakes both the Moira and Ceta in the days following. ☄ A LESSON IN MID COMMUNICATION ( 03.17 - 03.22 )As the translator technology has recently been fixed, the crew will notice that their MID devices now come with an extra feature: a brief explanation of the extra capabilities of the translation technology. Each MID records all language that is spoken near it, stores information on phonetics and linguistics in order to keep each language as current as possible. In the event that an unknown language is encountered, all known languages are applied until the meanings of each sound or word are decoded. In some instances, it’s a long process, and in others, it spans the time of a few weeks.
There is a small addendum that states that no conversations are recorded and stored in their entirety in order to protect privacy.
Crew may ask themselves why this is there, but all they have to do is get close enough to one of the flying, whale-like creatures to find out. Communication is still not quite perfect, and this is where the translator technology needs the crew’s help. The more two beings interact using speech, the further the database will expand. Attempting communication might be futile at first, but eventually, the low peaceful songs filling the misty air of Ceta are broken with words: a cry for help When the creatures have come close to the temporaries before, it was not out of curiosity; it was an attempt to destroy them and save themselves. But remember, even if you want to help, these creatures are skittish around sudden light and it takes time for them to trust, time the Moira might not have. ☄ TRADE FOR RESOLUTION ( 03.22 - 03.25 )It’s common knowledge that this universe runs on a system of trade for either goods or services. If you can provide either of those to another, then you can have anything you want. This includes protection. The closest neighboring planet, like so many others, has a variety of groups that can be hired out to perform a number of duties. In an effort to offer the crew peaceful resolution for something that they’ve learned is discomfiting to many Moirans, the hunting and killing of innocent creatures on Ceta, the captains suggest something a little different this time.
Contact and an initial payment has been made to a team of soldiers to travel to Ceta to meet with the crew. Essentially, if enough valuable resources are offered to this group, they will do whatever is necessary to rid Ceta of the hunters and declare that Ceta is a protected planet. This means that they will protect these giant creatures from future harm as long as a yearly sum is delivered to them. The captains agree to continue payment as long as the rest of the crew can gather enough for the first year. ☄ FEEDING FRENZY ( 03.25 - 03.31 )With everything finally coming to a peaceful close, the Moira and the crew’s routine begin to return to normal. The process for leaving Ceta is spread ship-wide. However, as they leave Ceta’s atmosphere and enter space once more, some odd things appear to have flooded the ship. An infestation of scraplets have led to minor complications that soon start to escalate. Feeding exclusively on metal, they make a mangled mess of the ship's systems, causing them to glitch and stop working altogether as they chew their way through its internal workings. You may notice your door will no longer open or close, or maybe the temperature has gotten unusually warm. Is that a leak? How did that get there? Maybe you happen to be made of metal yourself, or have metallic prosthetics - "living" metal is actually preferred over the walls of the ship.
The infestation will start to threaten critical systems if left unchecked and will need to be taken care of as quickly as possible. It is the crew’s responsibility to band together and figure out a way to stop these scraplets from devouring the entirety of the ship and leaving them stranded or worse.
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thisavrou_log2016-03-17 09:28 pm
no subject
The text scrolls up from Rinzler's MID, outlined in orange holographics. A moment later, its glow is nearly completely drowned out. Rinzler's hand is flat on the ground where Deacon stood, light resolving underneath his touch. Footprints, lit in a clear, bright white, that trace out the user's path on approach. As Rinzler widens the scan, a hint of red-orange can be seen marking his own steps, though it's nowhere near as bright as the user's.
His path isn't the one that matters, though, and the black helmet tips up, stare following the traces back the way Deacon came. The bugs are tiny, and in such a small group there's not much signature to track. Still, there's something, a faint static scrape he can feel as much as see. If he can just pin it down...
no subject
But people--artificial and organic--can be either good or bad, and he doesn't know which Rinzler is yet. And that makes the revelation that Rinzler could easily track him pretty fucking worrying.
"Okay, that's either really useful or really creepy." Depending on whose side Rinzler is on.
no subject
Original instantiation written by user-designation Alan-1.
Tron was. Had been. Not Rinzler. For all that he'd acknowledged the user's claim—for all that Alan-one had used his name... Rinzler was increasingly less sure that he was what the user wanted.
Fingers curl slightly on the ground below, a push of power to the scan as he tries to focus on the data.
Current programming a product of system administrator.
Likes aren't relevant. Neither is the user's squeamishness, though there's a skip of noise that might denote amusement. Or overwhelming smug. Rinzler's tracking skills are excellent, and you'd better believe he knows it.
no subject
Deacon notices that Rinzler just gave straight facts--created by this person, current code the result of that person--and nothing at all about what he, Rinzler, thinks of it. Escaped synths have said that it's not an uncommon reaction among their fellows who remain at the Institute. If asked what they think of the Institute, they stare blankly like it's an irrational question, like they're being asked their deep feelings on space-time. The Institute just is. But there's a distinction between being incapable of having an opinion and just being unpracticed in having one. And Rinzler appears to be perfectly capable of having opinions on other things.
no subject
Relevance?
There isn't any. Shouldn't be. Not for the user, and certainly not for him. Whys aren't anything Rinzler was made for. Anything he's supposed to be allowed. Any more than he's supposed to know about his user. Or [his] [Tron's] name.
The harsh rattling grows louder. And much closer to a growl.
no subject
"The relevance is that if they reprogrammed you, and you didn't want it, it's wrong."
no subject
Wrong? It is worth laughing at, if he had a voice to do it. Rinzler knows users well enough by now not to expect sense, but this one's listening skills seem just as damaged. Or maybe its comprehension. Either way, it's not his problem. Rinzler's not a user, and he knows what that means. What he's for. He knows, too, how little wants have ever mattered.
Especially now that he understands that why.
no subject
He was off base when he compared Rinzler to an assaultron. Rinzler is more like a Courser, he thinks. Definitely fully sentient, but well-trained to be an efficient and deadly hunter for his masters and not to seek freedom from their will. At least Rinzler's only hunting scraplets. Deacon would hate to have someone like Rinzler on his tail while he was running synths out of the Commonwealth.
no subject
Definitely better to focus on that tug of function. Rinzler glances over the scan data one more time before letting the display dismiss. He rises, crouch replaced with his usual slight hunch as the weapon in his right hand lights with a low hum.
It can talk to itself about wants and wrongness all it likes. He's off to do something useful.