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(Fictional Short Story) The Lofty Dreams of a Programmer
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Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#1 - 2015-05-29 20:48:42 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • Here you have it now... the seventh installment in the 'feuilleton' series called "La Comédie Immortelle" (The Immortal Comedy)... As my first 'stab' at a detective story, I rather liked the 'Spade' character as it evolved... (I may even use him again somewhere.)
    • So without much more further ado, "Beboop..."
    "Boop."



    The Lofty Dreams of a Programmer


    ---


    "The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious - the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science."

    - Albert Einstein: {{Data file corrupted...data incomplete: Ancient Terran physicist; Span of Life: unknown - unknown; Origin: Germany, Ancient Earth}}
    ---

    “If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.”

    - Edgar Allan Poe: {{Data file corrupted...data incomplete: Ancient Terran poet/author/literary critic and theoretician; Span of Life: unknown - unknown; Origin: Northern America? Ancient Earth}}
    ---


  • --"Understood Sir. I'll be in contact with you by first light. Ilaina out."--
  • With a slight huff of exhaled recycled air illuminating through the lines of her stress worried face, Lieutenant Keshman disconnects from her conversation with the Admiral and begins making her way to the station's main Internal Security offices. With any luck, there might still be someone available at this late hour of the night for an assignment. Regrettably their only witnesses' murder wasn't a run of mill crime of passion or opportunity; run of the mill people aren't given the sort of security clearance needed for the completion of this investigation. The other side of the coin raises the question that if she was to find anyone, could she ultimately trust them? No one on this station was above suspicion in the man's death, making everyone a suspect; upon discovery of the body in such a sensitive area the entire space station was put on a 'heightened' level of restriction affecting everything from travel to commerce. Actions now all dependant on a single answer for resolution, putting a lot of angry and frustrated Gallente Federation citizens' lives into temporary disarray. Then to make matters even worse, aside from an entry hole through the center of the poor victim's head, there were literally no other clues to guide them. Up until now nothing about this murder has added up. With the culprit, means and opportunity obstructed from justice, all she really had to work with was a dead body and a motive. Ilaina shakes off the notion as she finally reaches her intended destination. What she really needed at the moment was for something to free up her mental processes a little. With everything that has been happening in her life in just this past week alone, she was starting to feel a little stretched thin. In order to keep from snapping, she needed to draw strength from somewhere. Within the entire span of her existence in this Universe, the Idama couldn't recall one past experience that could be of any help to her now; sleep was destined to become her only ally in this task.
  • Entering into the outer lobby areas of the security offices, the Lieutenant is immediately greeted by an empty automated work environment, completely devoid of human life. She quickly scans her credentials into the security scanner allowing her access to the inner offices. Her only thought being one of disappointment. Son of a *****. Reigning in her frustration at the sudden discovery of loneliness, she quickly facilitates one the available work terminals and begins logging in her credentials to the secured network. With any luck, this office has some sort of duty roster that she can access.
    • << All available agents are currently unavailable.
    Availability: Pending...
    Activate A.I. DET/CSI unit? Y/N? >>

  • "Aw, C'mon..."
    • << Y/N? >>

  • "Grrrr. Hold on..."
    • << Y/N? >>

  • "Argh....Nooo-- I really hate these things-- " Sigh.-- Boop. Hiss. Near the back of the offices, an access hatch opens up on one of the multitude of secured cargo compartments located there. A rather peculiar humanoid shaped drone rolls itself out on four mini all terrain tires, stopping at the bottom of the hatch/ramp to perform a very rapid 360 degree spin with those same tires before leaping straight up into the air; the unit's right side multi-purpose utility arm also jumps straight up into the air as if in being chosen, only lowering itself when the drone becomes once again firmly planted on the deck plates beneath it. A single black Spade emblem is painted on the humanoid shaped face, placed just below its lone, rectangular shaped optical lens/sensor. A short, soft metallic twinkling sound could be briefly heard coming from the audio functions of the drone as it leapt.
  • "I hate you."
  • S.P.A.D.E. Two Two One Beta Gamma Alpha Delta active...

    • ---

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#2 - 2015-05-29 20:50:17 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

    It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears. (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry )

  • Initializing A.I. DET/CSI Unit directives, standby... initialization complete...installing heuristic parameters... initializing...
  • A telephone rang out somewhere in the darkness. The consciousness of my program was abruptly awoken, then left fumbling through the morning haze. Or was it late evening? There it was again. Where is my hat?
  • Hello? Hello?? The digital hand of my frame puts down the phone. In a blink, my sensors register the woman standing in front of me. She was tall, silhouetted only by the shadows created by the arch in the doorway to my office. There was an air of mystery around this human female; a fetching young dame with piercing blue eyes and light sandy brown hair, tied in the back. Of Intaki origin to be sure, and if my optical sensors are registering correctly. One of those military types. A real cool drink of water if you catch my program's meaning. Analysis complete. She was one of those 'Idamas' you hear so much about when you're putting your audio receiver to the streets. Interesting to see one so late in the day. My programming is instantly curious as to what brings her into this neck of the woods. It was fair to say that she appeared worn by something and her vitals were registering all over the charts. Curious. Now where did I leave that hat?
  • Heya doll face, it’s too late at night for a proper social call, so what gives? Are you lost or something? Federation Navy credentials confirmed. Lieutenant Ilaina Keshman profile accessed. Information assimilated. His processes log the thought.
    • "Spade 221BCAD-- There's been a murder committed in the Security offices' holding cells. Security level one. Encryption level Alpha. Confirm."
  • You can just call me Spade sweetheart... Yeah, yeah I got it doll face. She was young and obviously didn't understand what my purpose was made for. A murder huh? And by the looks of it something that they wanted investigated real low key as well. The poor stump must have been important. Files accessed. Victim identity confirmed. It was about time my processes got some sort of paying gig; they were starting to feel underused.
  • "I'm physically connecting your uplink to a secured network within the offices of Admiral Augustus Lyomens for the duration of your investigation. Once I get this connected-- Click. There... You should now have unlimited access to it. Log all of your findings there. Confirm."
  • Hold on there doll face, that's a little personal for a first date... Whoa. Through the physical intimacy, a new world instantly opens up to the drone. Spade completes his initial analysis. The poor dame. It soon becomes apparent to his interactive programming that this biological female is hopelessly falling in love with everything that is this outer metallic shell. Analysis. The human female needed to be let down easy. It could never work out between them. They were from two different worlds. Quite literally; she had commuted to the station. Besides, with the murder of her friend she already had enough on her plate at the moment. Maxwell also didn't like baggage. The drone logs the thought. Sorry sweetheart, Max Spade works alone... With the first of its directives completed, Spade gives one of the firm meaty cheeks on the Lieutenant's backside an abrupt pat with one of its open mechanical hands before heading off into the outer offices area to look for its errant hat. The case was now open.

    • ---


  • SLAP. Gasp. "What the?!?" Did that drone just slap my ass? Her very first thought on this whole matter was one of initial shock and acute confusion. Lieutenant Keshman stands and stares puzzled as the drone without a further word or sound, rolls itself off into the outer offices. Apparently, it was very determined in its process of looking for something from within the various locked lost and found lockers. She begins to wonder if she had made a mistake in enlisting its aid. Unfortunately, Ilaina didn't have the resources available for doubt.
  • The Lieutenant belonged to a civilization that revelled in the use of Artificial Intelligence units like this one for their every day to day functionality. Every one of them created to be slaves to mankind. The Federation Navy understood this use of servile machine best; it was how they fought wars. The difficulty with creating units like this one was in the programming. This specialty drone had to be able to think as if it were a human, with the ability to reason out whatever investigation it was working on because ultimately their work resulted in arrests, convictions and personal accusations. The monumental task of development is further constrained by a series of laws set out by CONCORD to stem or arrest any attempt at creating A.I. sentience or the ability to become self aware in the machine. An asset prized in the human mind; understanding the value of a life. Since A.I. Detectives must avoid rushing to judgement, they are programmed be open-minded, able to think creatively and be open to multiple theories. Rationally she shouldn't be surprised by the drone's odd behaviour, it was how a programmer was able to capture the best of sentient life without actually creating it. These units represented the pinnacle of what the artificial world was allowed to offer to mankind; their price was definitely an indicator of their apparent worth. Each one was designed as a unique masterpiece, though redundant in the appearance of their outer shells, their programs were carefully and meticulously handcrafted by the skillful hands of digital

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#3 - 2015-05-29 20:52:54 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

    craftsmen. It made the drones slightly unpredictable at times, sometimes even difficult to work with; absolute control over their actions became subjective. This one was at the moment waist deep in an open cargo container, rummaging around for something at the bottom. Shaking her head and any residual embarrassment away, Lieutenant Keshman exits the office, making her way to the docking ring and ultimately her shuttle ride back to Gallente Prime. Her last thoughts on this matter being: I really hate these drones...

    ---


  • Ah, there it is. My proximity sensors passively record the Lieutenant as she leaves the area; it kinda seems like the poor girl left in a huff. Huh, Yeah. Heartbreak tends to do that to dames... She seems strong. I'm sure she'll get over it... Eventually... Now without any further distractions, my programming was now undivided on the task assigned. With only a quick preliminary glance over all of the relevant data made available, my deductive processes couldn't help but be all over on this one. Something about this case didn't quite add up. How was a man murdered in protective custody without anyone seeing, hearing or even registering a human presence within the entirety of the cellblock? All of the scan logs are clean. No apparent tampering. Zero witnesses. Man, I picked the wrong day to quit drinking... It soon becomes apparent that my first task was going to have to be physically processing the scene of the crime. Perhaps even give it an efficient once over for any missed clues. Lord only knows that's why I was created in the first place... Hopefully, no one has touched the body.
  • Over the course of my brief existence, my programming has found that the custodial drones on this station are terribly efficient at their jobs, but they're also not very bright. Whether or not their actions are intentional, they always end up finding ways to get in the way of an ongoing investigation. I wonder if I'll get to crack any skulls this time around? With that final observation logged, Spade dons his hat and leaves the security offices making his way through the corridors of the station to the apparent scene of the crime.
  • Upon reaching the cellblocks, Spade is immediately stopped by two security drones guarding the entrance. One in a very gruff sounding voice barks out a warning. Whatta YOU want tin can? This here area is off limits. So scram.
  • Figures. There are always a couple of low level goons. They're never very hospitable either. Spade instantly flashes the pair his electronic credentials and padded clearance level; the pair become a slave to Spade's processes. Yeah, that's what I thought... Switching off the signal, Spade continues, I'm here on important business. I hear ya got a body for me to once over.
  • Yeah, we got one. Boss says we ain't suppose to let anyone touch it.
  • Yeah Boss says we ain't suppose to let anyone in either.
  • Great. Well lucky for you till the completion of my investigation I'm your boss. How long has the stiff been on ice?
  • 'Bout an hour or two.
  • We ain't let anyone in for an hour or two.
    • My logic circuits have already calculated that the secondary security drone wasn't going to be much of a conversationalist. Probably draw more insight from a garbage can unit. My line of questioning gets redirected exclusively to the first in order to save time. So what can you tell me about the victim?
  • Nuttin'. Poor meatbag was dead by time we got activated. Never met the guy.
  • Has anyone been into the cells since?
  • Nope. Not since that bossy human female came and activated us.-- Wait. Now that I think of it. There was also a custodial unit... Sort of a quiet guy. He's here a few times every day. Like clockwork ya know. He just went in not too long ago.
  • Son of a *****. So much for a sealed untampered crime scene. Anything else you forgetting to tell me? Why'd you let him pass?
  • Nope. Think that was 'bout it. At this last part, the drone chuckles a little to himself. When you see this guy, you'll understand. He's harmless.
  • Apparently, sarcasm seems to be lost on the drone; as well as the ability to discriminate between harmless or not. Why is my existence continually surrounded by morons? How hard is it to keep everything out of an active crime scene? Spade transmits a list of commands to the stationary pair, after which he wirelessly scans his creds into the system removing the lockdown on the entire block. With a careful eye, the drone enters into the inner cell block area; everything was now considered evidence.
  • The confinement cell where the man lost his life was located near the farthest end of the cell block, directly opposite the entrance; a position from which Maxwell Spade could easily see the body of the murdered man. The A.I. DET/CSI unit logs the thought. From there, the rest of this inner block opens up into a long rectangular shaped room with a total of ten different sized holding cells all facing an unmanned guard desk/terminal station positioned directly in the center of the room. All cells were currently empty save the one with the dead body and unfortunately the one just beside it.
  • Busy at work in this cell was the custodial drone, seemingly oblivious to anything and everything around it that wasn't dirt or biological grime or a combination of the two. It was fair to say that it was a funny looking drone, tiny even by drone standards. With a multitude of scrubbing brushes adorning its form and chemical sterilizers/cleaning solutions sloshing around its insides, as if they were its very lifeblood.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#4 - 2015-05-29 20:58:16 UTC
    Yikes! With a mug that only a mother could love, he sort of looks like a rat. During this investigation, nothing was to be considered harmless. Still... With further analysis of the situation, Spade still couldn't understand why it was allowed access to the room. What was he missing? The four wheeled drone paused in the entranceway to further process the information. If Spade didn't know any better, he thought that his auditory sensors could perceive the little drone 'whistling' a tune while it worked, scrubbing and sanitizing its little artificial heart out as it effortlessly hovered across the metal floor plates. It definitely appeared very content in its role.
  • Upon finishing with its predetermined task in the one cell, the tiny hover drone moves its way into the next but suddenly gets stopped by the sight of the biological mess oozing out onto the floor before its sensors. It lets out a little artificial gasp; all before sloshing itself around for a bit. I'm g-g-going to ne-ne-need more chemicals for this m-mess. While the drone spins itself 180 degrees on the spot and with the intent of making its way back to its 'janitorial closet' for more supplies, it finally notices that it wasn't the only drone in the room. There was some sort of security drone watching it from the doorway; it must be a unit of some importance, it was wearing a hat after all.
  • Oh-- Hello. It ap-pe--pears that this human has sp-sp-sprung a leak. I ne-need more supplies.
  • How did you get in here? Spade's interrogation processes thought it best to start with an obvious question, then work its way from there during the rest of the interrogation. His other pressing question being: Why does this drone have a stutter?
  • The d-d-door opened, I ho-hovered in. *Tsk, tsk,* These hu-humans are always s-s-so me-messy. Always l-l-leaving their b-b-biological stuff on the f-fl-floors.
  • That's not what I meant. Why were you allowed into the area after it was secured with a lockdown?
  • J-j-ju-just lucky I guess. Are you he-here b-because of him?
  • Hold up! I'm the one asking the questions here. Spade 221BCAD grabs the tiny drone in its mechanical utility arms, forcing it to hover at an uncomfortable distance from the ground before connecting its analytical processes with those of the custodial drone. It was a fair question. Spade's olfactory sensors become instantly overwhelmed by the heavily intoxicating antiseptic smells of cleaning solutions; this poor drone reeked like an alcohol soaked cleaning sponge. Once the link was established, Max's reasoning circuits take over, re-evaluating the situation. Analysing. Accessing maintenance logs. Hmmm, that's peculiar... Scheduled utility drones are already integrated as a background part of the security system process. Huh. Just like cogs in a wheel, they're a necessary part of the entire system. Spade releases the tiny drone and it falls harmlessly back with a slight bounce to its original hovering position over the floor plates. To the simple processes of the custodial drone, there was no logic in creating a mess just to clean it. This tiny drone obviously couldn't be the murderer, but that wouldn't rule out the use of another drone. Son of a-- This is a real puzzling turn of events I've landed myself into.
  • This new bit of information definitely narrows down the parameter list of possible murder suspects. Spade could very well be looking for a drone of some sort; it would have been the only thing capable of accessing the cell block without setting off any sort of red flags or warrant arrest at the entrance. Something that could easily come and go at will, but would appear like part of the background. Max's program recalls from its memory banks the incident report regarding the maintenance drone and one of the guards from the cellblock. Fortunately, it was a lucky break for the investigation and just in time too. This tiny drone staring at him was starting to annoy his processes. He logs the thought.
  • Spade's sensors run a quick diagnostic program over the malfunctioning drone before him. Just one last quick question-- When I first came into the cellblock why were you whistling?
  • Why w-wa-was I wh-whistling? B-b-because my program c-can.
  • Alright kid, you can go now. Just don't touch the body until I've had a chance to process the scene. The results of his diagnostic indicate that there was a slight redundancy malfunction in the unit's sub-processors. Some sort of glitch in the manufacturer's hardware base programming. It was a bug that could have been easily fixed but for whatever the reason over the course of this drone's existence it wasn't; which Spade then does. Poor bastard had a stutter his whole life and didn't even realize... If this drone had only known, Max's reasoning circuits offered up as proof positive to its ignorance. Maxwell releases the tiny drone. After which his reasoning circuits offer up another possibility as an afterthought for his processes: Maybe the whistling was enough for him.
  • Oh!! Thank you sir. Thank you. I won't ever disturb your crime scenes. Ever. On those final words, the tiny funny looking custodial drone went on his way to retrieve more cleaning supplies, confident in the understanding as to why this strange security drone wore such a handsome looking black fedora. The automated door opens and closes leaving the A.I. DET/CSI unit finally alone with the body; he then redirects his full spectrum of analysis sensors and crime scene investigative utilities toward the area containing the dead body. Maxwell pauses within the doorway to readjust that same fedora, taking the opportunity to also scratch the top of his humanoid shaped head.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#5 - 2015-05-29 21:00:14 UTC

    This murder investigation was still in need of the murder weapon in order to draw a proper conclusion. As he works, the drone proceeds to document all of his finding, logging his analysis on the secured network.

    ---


  • Somewhere, in another part of this station, on this very same level, two human security officers monitor a bank of holographic video screens from a closed security terminal station. The sight of an activated A.I. DET/CSI unit rolling itself through the corridors to the prison cellblocks immediately draws the attention of one of them. The scene prompts him into waking up his partner who was slightly snoozing in his chair. He then transfers the image to the main viewer.
  • "Holy ****! Marcus wake up. Wake UP Goddamit!" finishing the last part with a quick but heavy boot to the side of his chair, jostling the poor man back to the conscious world.
  • "Wha-- I'm up." Marcus quickly snaps to attention thinking one of his superiors had just entered into the room. Quickly assessing the situation he continues, "What the hell Remi--"
  • "Shut up and look" Remi responds directing his attention to the promise of a comedy playing out before their eyes on the main screen; he then rolls off in his chair to somewhere into the background of the room. These specialized drones were often unpredictable; this one in particular was wearing some sort of knitted cap with a beard pattern attached. It gave the drone the comical almost human appearance of having a woolen beard. From any vantage point in the small room, the pair together stare with eyes locked onto the screen, each mesmerized by the rolling image. Marcus turns up the volume from each area being monitored to get a better seamless cinematic show, barking out a command back towards his friend:
  • "Quafe me Bro."
  • "I gotcha. We got Quafe Regular or... hmm, there's also a can of Quafe Green in here. Which do you want?"
  • "Quafe Green??? Ewww, gob almighty no. I heard that crap's made of people. Just give me a can of the regular stuff."
  • Remi rolls back to his friend just as the A.I. DET/CSI unit reaches the two security drones guarding the entrance to the cellblocks. The last hushed sound in the security surveillance room being the sound of two soft drink cans opening, followed by a quick hollow metallic 'clink'. Then, there was only reverent silence in order for the two to not miss a single thing.
  • On the main viewer, one of the security drones guarding the cellblock hovers itself into the path of the rolling A.I. DET/CSI unit, barring passage into the inner cellblocks. Both of the sentry drones weapon systems are fully activated, each aiming their full arsenal of automated weaponry towards the detective unit. It was a formidable sight to the two silent observers, each now on the edge of their chairs in anticipation of some sort of 'incident' happening.
    • BEEP. (Followed by a quick shove backwards)

  • Regaining its position, a tiny aerial antenna appears from the right shoulder of the slighted drone after which both of the sentry drones for unexplainable reasons disarm themselves. Positioning itself between the two, the odd unintelligible conversation continues between the three; the antenna disappears back into the shoulder.
    • Boop?
    Beep. Beep.
    Boop?
    Beep. Beep.

    Boop? (The detective drone then turns and just faces one of the sentries)

    Beep.
    Boop?
    Beep.
    Boop? Boop?
    Beep.

  • Apparently satisfied by the results of this strange interaction, with a wave of its mechanical utility hand the A.I. DET/CSI unit unlocks the area and then enters into the inner areas containing the victim's lifeless body. The holographic view from the inner chamber paints a morbid crimson picture of the crime scene to the pair of security officers; standing within the entrance archway to the room, the entirety of the detective unit becomes temporarily obstructed from the surveillance system. Truth be told, it was an unusual place for a blind spot to exist on such a heavily secured part of the level.
  • Busy at work in one of the empty cells located opposite the doorway was a tiny, funny looking custodial drone hovering from spot to spot, polishing, scrubbing, scanning, then scrubbing just as any other of the tens of thousands of these little utility drones are apt to do on a space station; most times, humans rarely even notice that they are around. Finishing its task to satisfaction within the one cell, this one finally encounters the bloody mess left to it by the current occupant of the next cell. It stops dead within its tracks, bobbing slightly in the air as it does, then shutters. To the human observer, the drone was apparently frightened by the sight of the corpse and was in the process of running away before it was stopped once again in its tracks by something barring the automated doorway, bobbing slightly in the air as it does.
    • Beep.
    Boop?
    Beboop.
    Boop?
    Beep. Boop?

    BEBOOP. (Two mechanical arms appear from the archway, grabbing onto the hovering utility drone and raising it a few feet off of the deck plates) Boop?

    "Boop?" Beep.

    Beboop. (The two mechanical arms release the tiny drone; it falls back to its natural hovering position, bobbing slightly in the air as it does.)

    Beboop.



Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#6 - 2015-05-29 21:01:15 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • Once again left alone to its own devices within the prison area, the A.I. DET/CSI drone finally moves itself into full view of the security cameras of the cell area. From there, it begins its daunting task of processing and cataloguing every bit of evidence contained within the crime scene. The last bit of which being a snug fitting baseball cap sporting the insignia of a popular MindClash team. The last thoughts being spoken after witnessing this whole confusing ordeal on a big screen coming from the Gallente human Remi to his security co-worker Marcus:
  • "I thought these things were programmed to talk."

    • ---


  • The thorough investigation of the poor stiff's dead body didn't turn up the clues my programming had anticipated. It really wasn't much more than what I had already known. I sort of felt like I'm just spinning my wheels on this one. The Spade unit takes one last careful scan of the cell area, moving its automated head back and forth in a steady narrow arc. If there was a weapon involved my sensors can't detect it; whatever the perpetrator was, they obviously took the weapon with them. What can make such a precise hole in a body from such a distance and not leave any evidence behind? Something that also wasn't picked up by any of the holographic surveillance system sensors? Max readjusts his hat, while his wireless transceiver pages the station 'meatwagon' to pick up the body and reprocess into biomass what was left. Bag 'em and tag 'em boys. He logs the thought. This poor sap's got Quafe green written all over him...
  • Stuck within a redundancy loop, Maxwell Spade's programming begins to run down the list of ballistic possibilities once more. Even an invasive cellular scan of the tissue surrounding the entry wound didn't reveal anything to his analytical programming; there was only a slight increase of the melanin levels in the area. Otherwise, there was no bullet. No plasma, chemical or powder burns. The wound was completely free from polymers and any other highly reactive material or chemical which could accomplish the task and then dissipate into the atmosphere without leaving any trace or residue behind. With the amount of time that has passed since the murder, the environmental sensors in the room would still be able to detect the rogue elements in the air. If the entry wound was made by any sort of sharp piercing object, this object was one made without leaving any sort of tool mark on it; manufacturer's tool marks always contain their corporation's insignias as a seal of warrantee on the finished product. Why am I just not seeing this? C'mon Maxwell, pull it together.
  • The silent 'idea' that a new change of scenery might improve my analysis with the advent of new information, begins to plague my logic circuits. Maybe a better physical description of the oddly behaving maintenance drone might give my processes the information it needs to get out of this redundancy cycle; strange enough, none of the surveillance logs accessed had any information recorded on what type of maintenance unit the drone actually was. It was almost like it became a ghost as it traversed the station corridors; Spade's deductive processes reach another conclusion. Hmmm. this drone seems to act similar to those human 'eagles' I was reading about earlier on the Admiral's private network. That's a strange connection to make but sometimes it doesn't hurt to snoop a bit. The A.I. DET/CSI unit' program now comprehends why Lieutenant Keshman's vital signs were so erratic upon their first encounter. Dammit! I should have been easier on the poor dame. I never thought that her baggage was another drone. It was probably a good thing she left when she did. Maxwell had always thought that his prized fedora made him look quite distinct.
  • Upon leaving the cellblocks, Spade attention gets drawn to yet another drone in this mystery; its entire body was being pinned very aggressively against the side wall by one of the sentries guarding the entranceway. A quick flash goes off in the background; Spade logs the thought.
  • Max! MAX!! Argh, get off of me you big brute. Maxwell Spade! Unit 3180 from the Scope, can you give us a quote? What really happened in there? Was there really a murder on the station? Is this incident gang related? The public has a right to know-- Ah, stop shoving me. Max! Max!
  • Great. The Press. If there was a sure way of ruining an investigation, they would find it. Spade chooses to ignore the pleas of the reporting drone, continuing on his path towards the infirmary; in one of his fourth or fifth processes, he commands the two to 'ruff the drone up a bit' and then send it on its way in another direction. The pair gladly accepts the command as one of their own.
  • The trip to the infirmary didn't really turn up anything of value, with only a twisted ankle his witness had long been discharged from hospital care with a slight limp and a few days off of work. After retrieving his name and rank from the attending drone, the address listed on his personnel file was ultimately vacant of the man in question. Undeterred, Max begins searching out a few of the other places that the man was known to frequent based off of his corporate spending transactions.
  • Spade rolls up to a dirty tavern in one of the lower levels of the station. Upon accessing the multitude of security logs and incident reports filed in and around this business, Max already knows that this area had the reputation of being one of the seedier areas of the space station; it would contain a higher probability of there being a more criminal element than most other parts of the station. His logic circuits expected to find resistance here. Man, I should have brought the goon twins with me. Good thing I brought 'ol Lucille.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#7 - 2015-05-29 21:04:27 UTC

    The drone pulls out a stub nosed 38 special from its holster, then gives it a quick stare down the muzzle of the barrel before loading it with ammo. Buzzzzzzzzzz. Click.She may be just a tiny thing but this 'ol girl can still paint the walls red. The drone then tucks it into a hidden alcove located on its back. In case I get frisked... Most of the outer silicate glass windows to the establishment were covered, obviously concealing the occupants from the peering eyes of those on the promenade. Even the name of the bar, 'the Blind Pirate' seemed to advertise what one could expect finding here. Trouble. He pushes his hat forward.
  • Rolling itself into the seedy establishment, Spade's sensors are unaffected by the lack of illumination within the smoky interior, finally finding the injured man in question sitting alone in a corner booth with one of his legs propped up on an adjacent chair. By all appearances, he seemed to be in the process of celebrating his good fortune; a few paid days off from work and a handful of prescription pharmaceuticals. For good measure, the A.I. DET/CSI unit runs a fully intrusive search of the injured guard's financials. Merely as a precaution; it could eliminate the man as a possible suspect. Or it could very well lead to his conviction. To his left, a very burly and obviously surly human male of mixed Intaki/Brutor heritage working behind the bar shouts very angrily, while pointing at the drone standing in the doorway.
  • "Hey Robot! We don't serve your kind here!"
  • Robot?! Who you calling robot? Maxwell Spade flashes his security creds to the bar's internal systems, locking down the entire room much to the surprise and chagrin of the drone hating barman. This was an ongoing investigation that he was now impeding. The A.I. DET/CSI unit logs the thought.
    • ­­
    ---


  • The full range of side effects from the prescription was starting to kick in. Add to that the buzz that he was obtaining from the cheap imported lager he was indiscriminatingly pouring down his throat and this made for a pretty good start to the day. That is, until that strange security drone rolled into the center of the doorway to the place; it was wearing some sort of ball cap on its head. Most guess it was a fan of the Hurricanes. With his leg perched upon a chair beside him, the dazed and confused guard only stares in disbelief as the entirety of the bar gets put into lockdown. All music in the place is instantly shut off as the existing noise gets drowned out by the hush of whispers; all exits get sealed with airtight security barriers. Every eye in the place is now fixed upon the strange looking drone as it flattens its tires onto their sides, providing a sort of shock absorption between it and the floor, after which three retractable arms anchor themselves into the deck plates. Clink. Clink. Clink. From an alcove on its back, the barrel of a heavy looking mini chain railgun rises then locks itself into place over the drone's left shoulder. The lights in the room are illuminated slightly brighter as every monitor in the room now flashes a holographic image of the injured guard's security cred. corporate photo, followed by his name, rank and the words 'Wanted' scrolling below it on the screen; a photo where on a dare from his buddy he flashes both thumbs up and an unnaturally goofy smile. The foggy haze of stale smoke in the room seems to quickly dissipate around the man in question as a flurry of sliding chairs and grinding tables give a wide berth to the investigation. With a quick glance of disbelief at the bottle of pharmaceuticals held within his hand, the guard slowly raises his other hand into the air.
  • "Okay. Okay. Just be cool man. We don't want any trouble." the bartender pleads while holding both of his hands up in the air. Upon recognizing its function, he knew these drones were unpredictable at best. Being a bartender, as well as a quality purveyor of 'miscellaneous' information, he had heard horror stories of how these things can sometimes 'malfunction'. Once, somewhere in the Essence region, one of these things had locked down a room in a space station much in the same way as this one just did. When its quarry was uncooperative to its investigation, it opened fire. It first opened up the barrel on a sizeable chunk of metal plating from the ceiling just above the man in question, with the resulting action completely pinning the poor man to the floor. The crazy drone then fires a blur of dense, extreme velocity high caliber rounds into the outer wall, breaching the atmospheric containment of the thick metal wall and with it everything and everyone else that was within the room got sucked out into the void and vacuum of space. After the emergency containment emitters finally erected a temporary energy wall to stave off the undesirable effects of space over the hole, the two were left alone for a more intimate talk. That is, once the environmental controls of the station began to fill the voided room with oxygen again. Apparently, pain from a heavy weight crushing his lower body and as well as from asphyxiation mix well with a controlled near death experience in order to obtain results; the drone logged the observation.
    • Citizen. Your assistance is needed in apprehending a suspect. Will you comply?

  • "Y-yes. O-of course Officer." the injured man finally stammers out. The results of his financial probe came back clean. Without any proper motive, this man gets ruled out as a possible suspect; the A.I. DET/CSI unit logs the thought.

    • ---

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#8 - 2015-05-29 21:05:44 UTC

  • Holstering his piece, Spade begins slowly making his way over to the table of the injured guard. Most of the rum jockeys in the joint have already turned back to wallow in their drinks. Upon the wondrous discovery of his exclusion from this investigation, the half Matari barman removes the simple woven solinium Panama hat from his head, wiping away a sigh of relief with the backside of his other hand. A few of the quieter patrons take the opportunity to slyly sneak away as the security barriers become removed; they could get drunk at home without the harmful side effects of being dead.
  • With the bulk of his analytical processes now directed towards the damaged security officer, Maxwell was now going to find that the man would be very forth coming with his information. Yeah. Good 'ol Lucille... she seems to have that effect on the fellas. Without selling his confidence in his skill and expertise short, Spade knew that he was extremely good at his job. I mean, the pay is ****... even the hours are horrendous, slaving away at a thankless job, but that would never deter me from finding this murderer. I want him that bad. It was part of his programming. Of course, sometimes having a reputation didn't hurt either. The drone logs the thought.
  • Don't get up. I need to ask you a few questions about the maintenance drone that busted up your ankle there. The drone jerks the thumb of one of his utility hands towards the chair holding up his leg. Did you get a good description of the unit? What category of maintenance drone was it?
  • "Yeah I saw 'em. Not sure what type of maintenance drone it was though. They seem to all look the same to me. You know, that son of a ***** clunker just shoved me out of its way. Like I was nothing." The human takes a long pull off of his malted beverage before continuing. "Can't you see I'm in pain. I'm the one who's the victim here. My superior officer just laughed me off... Told me I'd 'imagined' it all... 'drones don't intentionally harm humans unless commanded to' he says--"
  • Let's just stick to the facts Sir. For some reason, I don't have a visual record of the incident in question from any of the security surveillance archives. Where was the drone heading when you encountered it?
  • "I suppose it was heading in the direction of the lower D cellblock areas on the security level. It seemed to be in some sort of hurry too. Damn machine came up from behind me without any warning. Blasted thing nearly pushed me through a metal corridor wall. Got some bruising too. Wanna see?" The man pulls up his shirt while turning a bit to expose the tender areas of his side.
  • The drone waves off his suggestion. Were there any distinguishing marks that you can remember seeing on it as it shoved you aside?
  • "I think that I can do you one better--. I got the unit's designation coding number when my head bounced off of it." The man turns his head slightly to the right, showing off the rectangular shaped imprint of backwards letters and numbers; left in shades of blue and purple by the drone's ID tag. "Probably won't do you any good though... It’s just a designation, the scan coding didn't 'transfer over' as well. When I gave the ID number to the clerk... Er rather, when he read it from my head while we were drafting my incident report, we checked for it... For some reason, the archive system put the unit belonging to that coding on the other side of the station around the same time as the accident. Taking along with it my chances of collecting any sort of insurance money. It was logged as repairing a broken environmental condenser or something like that.--" Straightening himself in his chair as best he could, he stares directly into the automated 'eyes' of the A.I. DET/CSI unit, if only to convince the drone that he wasn't at all crazy. "I know what my eyes saw though; observing and retaining details are still part of my job description. This thing definitely appeared to be in a hurry to do something."
  • My reasoning circuits let these last words sink into my programming. Since the advent of our little conversation, my programming has been carefully monitoring his vitals, you know, for the usual telltale signs of deceit that humans seem to be so horrible at hiding. They were slightly erratic. Probably more caused by the substance abuse more than anything else; his words seem sincere. If this human was lying, he wasn't showing any physical signs of it. My reasoning circuits again reach another conclusion: It appears that my prime suspect in this investigation has just become a drone.
  • Then another: Also, this guy's got a slight genetic disposition to cardiovascular degeneration... if his kids keep this kind of living up, they'll be dead before they reach thirty.
    • ---


  • The brief but concrete idea struck my logic circuits that finding this drone was going to be harder than my programming had previously reckoned. This mysterious drone didn't want to be found and it appeared that every protocol in its system was enacted to keep it that way, whatever the cost to human life. If I'm not careful, I could end up investigating a pile more dead bodies. My program begins running down everything the investigation had collected so far; his logic circuits then spin the data through a continual redundancy loop in order to see if anything shakes loose. As of yet, I'm still no closer to determining the murder weapon, but now I have what looks like a concrete suspect to question. Motive? He was programmed to do it. The who and the manner in which this feat was accomplished still remains a mystery. Find the drone, and the Lieutenant will have her connection; I really wanted to help this poor dame catch a break...

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#9 - 2015-05-29 21:06:36 UTC

  • It was apparent to my programming that the love-lorn Lieutenant was neglecting her duties here in order to chase after the one that apparently got away. It sort of made me feel all warm inside. I'd actually shed a tear if my programming would allow it. Besides that mushy sentiment, I sort of owed her one. With her slightest touch she opened my eyes to a much bigger world. With a slight mechanical chuckle to himself, Spade finishes his analysis. She should have known better, 'Once you go drone, you're always alone.'-- Unfortunately, I still needed to find a drone of my own. The A.I. DET/CSI unit logs the thought.
  • Alright, finally a bit of luck! Triple cherries! His logic circuits finally stop on another conclusion: He switched the ID plates. If I can find the original owner of this designation, I may be able to determine the identity of the homicidal drone. Processing further, it was an underestimation to say that the Gallente Federation loved their use of drones for nearly everything within their daily lives; especially in space stations, the human population becomes vastly overshadowed by those of the artificial persuasion. That's just what I needed. This investigation just became a search for a needle in a very large pile of metal casings, gears and artificial circuits...
  • As my idle outer shell mindlessly rolled its way through the various promenades and corridors of the station, my program was busy at work accessing the station's internal maintenance network with the tedious but necessarily repeated request for information from the archived logs. Yeah, I've never been very good with these bureaucratic types. They're real sticklers for dotting the i's and crossing the t's, not to mention the fact that they wanted every request for information to be completed in triplicate. It’s frustrating to have to admit that I've never been that good with paperwork. I'm more of a 'hands on' sort of unit... The drone logs the thought.
  • Receiving only abject frustration from the task, the unit's constant querying of a current physical location for the recorded designation coding only brings back the result 'Unit offline for repairs.' and no other available information. Spade slowly scratches his head, and then lets out a low whistle when the newest solution becomes apparent to his logic circuits. Undeterred, his program begins to work backwards in its processes and queries the drone's history of previous work behaviour for the past few months; up to and including the location logged at the time of the incident with the guard. If they all appeared confined to a single area of the station then at least this would narrow down his investigation to a smaller area of search. Sometimes being a Detective required the use of some good old fashioned footwork in order to chase down clues. Maxwell was already determined to go door to door looking for answers if the drone really had to. It was after all, what the drone was programmed to do.
  • Access to maintenance logs granted. Analysing new search results. Apparently from the location pattern presented in the logs, the drone worked in a more affluent part of the station. Getting access to the drone in question in order to interrogate it might become a little tricky. Though it does somewhat explain why he was off-lined from service. These rich snobs really don't like it when their drones, rock the boat so to speak. For them, the reasons why they did something just sort of become moot after it all. I guess I'm going to have to tread lightly on this one. 'Cause in that place, even the drones look down on you. The drone's willful determination now becomes replaced with the sensation of caution. Hopefully, the one I need hasn't been dismantled for scrap yet. As that last fearful thought winds its way through his processes, Maxwell Spade redirects his previous aimless wanderings towards the part of the space station housing the spires of the 'Rouvenelle District;' as well as those individuals belonging to the upper crust of space station society.

    • ---


  • The holographic monitors in the security station posted on this level of the station begin continuously flashing a brief incandescent warning to the ever vigilant occupants as an activated A.I. DET/CSI unit enters within the boundaries of their district. As a part of the Federation Navy Space Station normally reserved for those deemed the 'elite' of this closed in society, any sort of disruption or disorder was instantly and effectively discouraged here. This particular model of drone's sudden appearance in the area prompts those on this level into a state of frenzied readiness for immediate action. These drones were touchy and often very unpredictable; for some peculiar reason still unbeknownst to the room of military observers, this drone was wearing some sort straw grass hat.
  • The night had already been quite active with the Station being put on a military lockdown and high alert status due to the mysterious death of some inmate on one of the 'lower' levels. On top of which, since the previous day an allusive malfunctioning maintenance unit had been keeping the small group of security personnel busy with its discreet recovery for decommissioning. Apparently, the drone had removed its ID plate containing its scan coding, something that was needed in order to track, maintain and organize the synthetic mechanical army. Then when it was detained and presented with the option of its circuits being wiped clean and reprogrammed, it took the next available opportunity to run away. It has been cleverly avoiding the Space Station's sensor network ever since.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#10 - 2015-05-29 21:08:11 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • Protocols allowed the A.I. DET/CSI unit with the designation ID 221 Beta Gamma Alpha Delta to continue on with whatever investigation that had originally activated it in the first place; this one in particular had authorization and security credentials imbued within it for areas and sensitive material that even the most senior ranking officers on this station didn't. Effectively, this drone outranked them though not one of them would ever admit to that fact. The reasons as to why it was currently present in this particular area of the station still remained very much a mystery; there were no murderers to be found among this population. As per usual, the answers to such questions were always above their pay grade, a fact which would unfortunately sting their overall impression of this one A.I. unit. Currently, said unit was busy rolling itself into the main promenade area where the majority of specialty shops, designer boutiques and custom trends were housed. As was the custom of Gallente commerce, shops would always stay open for business, yet during the early hours of the new day most would be empty of any real customers.
  • A small detachment of security soldiers are immediately dispatched to the area, all equipped from head to toe with the type of gear that made them look like they were preparing for a small scale invasion. Their primary role was to be a precautionary measure only, in order to keep an actual physical eye on the situation as it progressed and maybe to alleviate the demands on the investigating unit. Keeping unknowing bystanders out of the path of this investigation drone was their ultimate goal, at least until they could determine what it was after within this area. Strategically speaking, if there were to be an incident to occur this part of the district offered them the ideal area to try and contain it before it had a chance to spill over into any of the outlying inhabited areas.
  • The promenade was fairly wide open, while being evenly spread out over four equally intricate levels. With it, there was a greater chance of creating very few innocent casualties as a result of the empty nature of the early morning; by midmorning this area would become the bustling Mecca of frivolous commerce that it usually was. Without causing too much alarm, the various human members of the unit begin positioning themselves in full view of the Spade unit as it continues on its business within the various shops; some by now have surmised that perhaps a shop owner was his intended target. While others, judging by the odd human like behaviour of the drone merely believe it to be shopping themselves; it gave the appearance like it was trying on hats. The A.I. DET/CSI unit doesn't make any sort of acknowledgement to their presence, continuing on with whatever task that its programming was directing.

    • ---


  • If my life wasn't already full of burden as it was, now my star witness seems to have gone on the lamb. I guess, that's one good thing about these military types... they're wonderfully predictable. I figured that since they were already busy looking for this unit, I'd put these soldiers to some better strategic use. With them covering the exits and using a human presence to sweep the promenade grounds, I just might be able to flush this drone out of hiding. Spade logs the thought.
  • Upon entering the district, passively active protocols in his programming wirelessly enacted within the system network authorizing the drone's presence here while simultaneously making a formal request for additional assistance with its own investigation. Max thought it best to start with a bit of diplomacy and tacked on this one. Obviously bored from such a tedious existence, the A.I. operating the security network on this level was more than happy to offer its aid in the acquisition of this errant drone, a little too eager even. Apparently, the drone in question had been eluding its sensors and the human's tasked with its apprehension were nowhere near the task. After all, the A.I. had a reputation to uphold.
  • Slowly and nonchalantly winding its way from shop front to shop front through the first level of the shopping concourse, the mechanical Detective keeps an alert intensive scan active for the detection of any artificial life forms present. Unfortunately, it would be to no avail since the clever witness was even able to hide its presence from his own specialized sensors. Max's logic circuits present the idea that it would be best for him to appear as a neutral party while he was busy checked out the various locations within the promenade that were previously serviced by the 'malfunctioning' maintenance drone; the elusive drone would automatically stick to what it was originally programmed to do, keeping it grounded to one area of the station while further confined by what was already held within its own memory banks. Go with what you know...
  • He's hiding here somewhere, I can almost feel it... but where could he be? By now, the security drone was finishing his stroll through the second level of this shopping promenade. Upon entering the third, the drone's reasoning circuits then present a new option for the rest of his processes to consider: What if I were to break something? I wonder... Unfortunately before Spade could actually act on the informative impulse, he gets inundated with a persistent static noise coming from the location of one of the environmental condensers situated around the changing rooms near the back of the long and narrow shop. Hmm, I was sort of hoping I could break something. Spade enters into the designer boutique, one of those trendy shops sporting the latest in Matari fashions, in order to investigate the noise further. It might be the bait that he needed. The human shopkeeper/tailor appears to be asleep at his counter and doesn't take

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#11 - 2015-05-29 21:11:46 UTC

    immediate notice of the activity of the security drone. He too appears to be living within his own dream.
  • Psssssssst. Psssssssst.
  • While only picking up the signature from a condenser unit during his search, Spade moves in closer for a better diagnostic scan of it. I think this condenser thingy has already sprung a leak, if I can only make it bit more noticeable to the drone's sensors... Then I'll let compulsion do the rest. The drone logs the thought. While rolling its way to the back of the store, Max finds that the leaking noise gets slightly louder and a little more persistent in its calling. Upon reaching the changing rooms, the leak then gets followed by a few discarded and garbled words from an unrecognized voice hidden among a pile of various cloth bundles.
  • Pssssssst. You there, wearing the fedora. Is the coast clear? Are they gone yet?
  • I think I just found my witness... Spade already knew how to deal with this sort, the working class. No, there are security personnel everywhere... You're probably best just to stay hidden there. I'll stay with you for awhile and keep a watch if you like.
  • Without reservation, the tiny hidden drone's circuits instantly knew that it could trust this security drone towering over it; upon its head was a very handsome looking black felt Fedora, sort of like the ones that they sold on the lower levels of the promenade. Oh dear. Yes, please stay. Please do stay.-- I'm not the one responsible. I told them that when I made my report. I'm the victim here. The VICTIM. That other guy mugged me and stole my ID tag. I told them that, but they didn't want to believe me. They just thought that I was malfunctioning. I told them that...
  • Okay, okay kid... I believe you. Now, just take a breath. Tell me how it all happened. Don't leave out any of the details.
  • How am I supposed to do my job without my designation coding? They wanted to delete me. I didn't know what else to do, so I ran away. My memory banks remembered logging one of the younger shop assistants asleep under these bundles of cloth when I was busy fixing that condenser there on the wall. I thought it would make a good place to hide myself.--
  • Finally able to pick up the purposefully weakened energy signature of the errant drone, Spade immediately notices that the mass of cloth on top of him also seems to be acting as some sort of damper as well; a very effective combination. The Detective drone logs the thought. Do you remember what the drone that attacked you looked like?
  • Yes I do. I can even do you one better. I still have his ID tag. A mechanical arm reaches out from the beneath the bundles presenting the Spade unit with a shiny rectangular plate embossed with an alpha-numeric sequence and a scan coding beneath it; it was slightly charred around the edges. After he pried mine off, he tried to weld his onto my frame, but I fought back. That wasn't my proper designation coding. How am I supposed to do my job without my designation coding? This guy was just some lowly maintenance drone from the docking ring. I'm a Rouvenelle District maintenance drone. I have a reputation to uphold...
  • Yeah, that seems to be going around these days. Taking the plate into his own utility hands, Spade inspects the designation closer. It definitely belonged to a unit from this station. Was there anything else that you can tell me about this unit?
  • Yes I can. That drone is a menace and should be dismantled behaving that way. You wouldn't find any drone from the Rouvenelle District behaving like that. I told them that. I did...
  • Spade chuckles to himself. His thorough investigation has just finally uncovered the true and complete identity of his suspected murderer. After sharing everything that his logic and reasoning processes had uncovered with the A.I. operating system responsible for this district, the concealed drone is now able to come out of its hidden burrow and once again continue on with its contented life. One down. One to go. The only mystery that now remained to the Spade unit's processes was: Am I still looking for a bloody knife or was the drone's programming the weapon? It logs the thought.

    • ---


  • The Capsuleer population had their own quarters with their own hangers; it was one less hassle or impediment to have to contend with during this investigation. The docking areas that Spade was currently headed to, being open to the general public of the Universe was a different sort of hassle all together. Rolling its way into the outer perimeter of the enormous hanger bay, Max can only hastily prepare himself for the inevitable fight, especially since he was still uncertain as to what exactly would cause a drone to behave so contrary to its pre-programmed function. Specifically designed for high volume loading and unloading of cargo, whether it was trade goods or pedestrians, this area would always be congested with traffic and often contained some of the lowlier elements represented by society. The drone stops and positions itself in a convenient corner in order to process the entirety of the scene before it from a more discreet vantage point. Spade pushes his hat forward, partially covering his eyes.
  • I always hated this place; the drones here were rather ugly looking... Maybe it was their piecemeal appearances-- There was something disturbing about looking at a drone who was obviously put together from the parts of other, what I would assume to be dead or dismantled drones. I guess that was the unfortunate side effect of being passed around from sailor to sailor, overuse and derogatory abuse gave you an appearance of not being complete.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#12 - 2015-05-29 21:12:53 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

    His logic processes reach an oddly philosophical conclusion: Every one of these drones is nothing more than cheap labour to these humans... Once they're done with them they get tossed away... only to be passed on to the next person in need... Maybe that's why my suspect stole the ID tag? A vain hope for a menial life without all of the degradation. I've noticed that humans tend to treat their own objects better than those that belong to someone else... This entire area is proof of that.
  • The A.I. DET/CSI unit's careful signature scan of the area was slow at best; further impeded by the sheer mass of machines at work within the confines of the gigantic ship hanger. Everything here was in a constant blur of movement, while also registering as a noticeable shifting blob of signatures on the full arsenal of the drone's active scanners. It sort of made his analytical processes dizzy. Even the various cargo ships and passenger shuttles still on lockdown offered a convenient place for something to hide in; peering through all of these hulls, then through every nook and cranny contained within was an exhausting effort. Fortunately for the drone’s utilities, the A.I. handling the security network in this part of the station was 'regrettably' too busy to offer any sort of assistance; keeping the worst elements out of the Federation Navy was not only its duty but its sole purpose. Co-ordinating with the human security forces at work on the ground was of utmost importance to its programming. The collecting of excise and taxation on imported goods, the confiscation of illegal goods, as well as the removal of the worst criminal elements before they can enter within the station itself was paramount to the completeness of the station system. This meant that Spade was left to his own devices. Suits me just fine... I always preferred working alone anyways. By being allowed an unrestricted access to the network for his investigation, the abilities of Spade's own specialized internal sensor network is now multiplied a thousand fold by the utilities embedded within the hanger bay, allowing the drone to conduct its search with much greater efficiency. It also meant that sometimes the sheer volume of information was too much for the processes of the A.I. network to properly handle. In his opinion, an unending task that no other A.I. could even come close to handling. This was after all, what this A.I. was programmed to do. Still, Max had a new found respect for the unsung working drone.
  • A slippery human with a data pad finally takes notice of this one lazy drone hiding itself inertly within the corner and he begins making his way over to the unit. As he gets closer, he begins actively scrutinizing the make and model of the unusually looking drone further; the older grizzled looking man appeared to be a captain of one of the cargo vessels that was docked within, he was of Caldari decent with obvious ties to the Gurista organization. He also had a bad liver and a few undetermined mechanical parts of his own. His vessel was docked and anchored about 5km down the aft side of the hanger. There were no surprises to be found on his background; every digital shred of his identification paperwork has checked out. Spade logs the thought.
  • "Will you look at that? I've never seen a unit like you before. You're not like the other ones here are you? Betcha I could get a good price for you somewhere."
  • Clink. Clink. Clink. Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...
  • "WHOA! OK. Okay man. Be cool. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just sort of wondering out loud, ya know? I meant no disrespect." The captain raises his hands mockingly in surrender to the drone, while slowly inching his way in closer. "Ho Ho Ho I can see that this one's a little bit temperamental... Nothing a quick circuit wipe couldn't fix-- Huh. By the looks of you, I'd guess you're some sort of a security unit. That's a pretty fancy piece ya got there-- I don't quite get why you're wearing a hat though, but 'to each their own' is what I always say. Probably somebody's idea of a practical joke." Shaking the notion out of his head, the man then inputs a series of quick commands into the data pad held within his hands. He then turns his full attention back to distracting the attention of the drone with some idle conversation. "So... Do you have any clue as to what's going on? Why all the fuss with the lockdown? Don't get me wrong... I'm all for a little layup here and there, but c'mon let’s face it, the gambling and the whores in these Navy stations are pretty tame. Am I right? It’s hard to get any decent action out of any of them."
  • Scram deadbeat... You're currently impeding an active investigation...
  • "Am I? Doesn't sound like something I would do? What are you looking for? Maybe I can help..." All the while the man is continually inching his way closer and closer to within physical reach of the Spade Detective unit; from out of a belt pouch, the man palms some sort of device into his left hand. Max had already noticed and formulated both the intentions and consequential actions of the man standing before him. It was apparent to his logic ciruits that the man would not be undeterred from whatever notion that was in his head; the mere threat of a rail gun's use was often a good deterrent, but in this case the weapon was far too heavy for use in such closed in quarters. The drone's analytical programming opts to holster it instead. Initializing A.I. DET/CSI Unit combat directives, standby... initialization complete...installing safety parameters... initializing... This stubborn bastard wants action does he? Don't say I didn't warn you Chump.--

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#13 - 2015-05-29 21:13:46 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • This security unit was constructed for and programmed in the use of many different forms of both lethal and non-lethal types of specialized force. Unlike most drones of similar mass and functionality, this one in particular was built to be not only lightweight and durable but extremely agile as well. Its sleek streamlined body, as well as every gyro-stabilized joint was optimized for the unadulterated delivery of kinetic efficiency. Combined with it the unerring automated precision in the targeting system of its melee strikes, and you had a dangerous foe to contend with. The drone flourishes one of its open utility hands into the air, pointing it in the direction of the human. After which, it then makes a hand motion beckoning the man in with it.
  • Checking his data pad with a slight grin, the intrigued pirate merely shrugs responding only with: "I'll take my chances." From either side of him a pair of menacing drones seemingly appear out of nowhere from behind a wall of cargo containers. It was obvious to the detective drone's programming that the human was just stalling him for time while his reinforcements had a chance to arrived from his ship; Max already had complete access to the entire contents of the man's datapad. His sensors had been monitoring these two the entire time as they travelled the 5km from his ship. A quick diagnostic scan revealed all of their strengths as well as their structural weak points; these two were rebuilt into a weird mix of half-maintenance, half-security drone for the sole purpose of stealing other drones. A body scan of the Caldari reveals the device held within his hand as being some sort of null crown altered in such a way as to fully incapacitate the higher functions of an artificial. As the human continuted to wait just out of arm's reach, the other two then begin strategically circling themselves on either side of the A.I. DET/CSI unit. This Gurista was very specialized in the theft of active drones; an alert is immediately signalled to the A.I. network requesting a security detachment to come pick up his body.
  • Pressing his metallic framework firmly against the wall behind him, Spade idly flashes his three adversaries his electronic credentials and padded security clearance level as a final warning to their actions; the pair of drones instantly become a slave to Spade's processes. Obviously these two were made out of the parts of other Federation Navy drones. As the two A.I.'s so easily affected by the command signal immediately stand down in their actions, the surprised pirate captain only desires possession of the A.I. DET/CSI drone even more. "Impressive... Very impressive indeed. It appears I was right about you. Tako-Ryoushi will be quite pleased with having you in his collection."
  • Give it up. There's no where you can run. Your ship is locked down, your goons have been incapacitated and there's a detachment of securtiy guards on their way to this location.-- Let me put this in simple terms that even you can understand... You're screwed pal. I think you'll find that in these parts, they don't take the theft of Federation Navy property very lightly.
  • The older Caldari gentleman bellows out a boisterous laugh in amusement at the threatening words of his mechanical prey; this man has spent a lifetime getting himself out of far worse situations. To him, the only real reward worth claiming came with the risk. He continues with a bit of mockery in his voice. "Really?! Ah that really is a shame.--" Then he points out the obvious. "It appears that you missed one my little friend." From out of the shadows behind him a third, strictly maintenance unit appears; it had somehow avoided detection by Max's sensors. This A.I. unit was obviously another poor maintenance drone belonging to the hanger bay that this man had somehow previously managed to capture. For some reason it's vocal processing unit was intentially damaged. It had even taken a different route than the other two from the cargo holds of his ship, again in the avoidance of Spade's detection; his analytical processes were having difficulty in determining whether this action was intentional or programmed into it. Like the human, it too was unaffected by the drone's command override signal. Both begin moving in on him with hostile intent. The A.I. DET/CSI unit logs the thought. Now that the artificial assailant was within full view of his sensor facilities, Maxwell's logic circuits reach another surprising conclusion: ITS YOU!!
  • Here moving in on him was his murder suspect; the complete physical description of which being recorded and transfered from the Rouvenelle drone's memory banks. It still also had trace amounts of the injured guard's blood and DNA on it. The security drone logs the thought. For a brief instant, both of them become momentarily stopped in their actions by the recognition of each other; the suspect's processes quickly determine that it has been uncovered in its attempted escape from the space station. Unsure as to what was just happening, the confused pirate pauses just long enough to watch as his previous capture pries the 'incapacitating' null crown from its metal frame. The previously dormant drones spring into action, both programs now intent on restraining the maintenance drone.
  • "What the?? Well, this is something new.--" Were the last words that the human could get out before getting cold cocked with a quick right cross by Max Spade; an action knocking him prone on the deck plates of the hanger bay, left dazed by a broken nose but still able to observe the altercation through watering eyes. Spade now turns his full attention towards the maintenance drone before him, his logic circuits reach another conclusion: This one chose to let itself get caught in order to be smuggled off of the station. How was it able to do such a thing?

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#14 - 2015-05-29 21:14:51 UTC

    As the detective drone ponders this new bit of information, it watches as the first of the two attacking drones gets ripped into two crackling, writhing mass of parts by the sheer strength of the maintenance drone's mechanical arms; its primary purpose was for the minor repairs of ship structures and hulls within this hanger bay. Then with one newly freed mechanical arm, it grasps the second by what would equate to a human throat. From its other forearm springs forth something that completely shocks the entirety of Spade's analytical processes, a two dimensional sword blade of holographic light, which it then thrust through the chest cavity of the struggling drone piercing through the top of its head. With a quick twist, the skewered drone then falls lifelessly to the deck plates. Spades reasoning circuits redirect his current processes. I think its about time that Lucille came out to play...

    ---


  • Clink. Clink. Clink. Whrrrrrrrrrrr.... PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW.PEW...
  • Trying his best to cover himself from the onslaught playing out before him, the Gurista rigger Umi Rylan of the cargo vessel 'the Winter's Solstice' watches in amusement as the two drones literally go toe to toe shredding each other to pieces. His only thoughts on the scene playing out before him being: ****. This is even better than a slaver hound fight. He already knows that who ever wins this outcome will undoubtably become his own prize; as an added plus, he'll even be able to salvage the A.I. program from the corpse of the loser. Specialized drones like these two meant big ISK in his pocket and praise from his superiors in the organization. Of course, that was assuming that he will be able to survive the outcome of this ordeal as well. He really didn't have the foggiest notion of what he was dealing with here. Umi had originally only taken this one drone in the first place because it had for some unknown reason, intentionally removed its own vocal processing unit; he didn't like drones who talked back, only those that quietly followed orders. What he was to witnesses happening next between the two would only make him joyfully uncertain as to who he should ultimately root for to come out on top.
  • Picking up with one of its utility hands a part of the crackling halves at its 'feet', it then uses the remains to shield itself against most of the high velocity precision rounds being expelled against it.

    • Clang.Clang.Clink.Clang.Clang.Clang.Clang.Clang.Clang.Clink.Clink.Clang.Clang...

    As the former handheld drone gets torn and shredded into a flurry of pieces and richochets by the furry of the ammunition, the maintenance drone makes a thrusting motion outward with the holographic sword. Morphing itself into a long tendril of coiled holographic light, in an instant it lashes itself around the barrel of the firing rail. With three short, succesive yanks on the line, it finally retches the weapon free from its housing on the shoulder of the detective unit, which then falls helplessly off somewhere behind the perpetrator. CLUNK. Clunk. Clunk. Whrrrrrrrrnnnn. It then throws what was left of the disseminated carcass of the drone into Maxwell's face before turning and fleeing the scene at max velocity. An action which also causes Spade's black fedora hat to tumble to the ground. Stooping over, the security drone plants both of its utility hands firmly on the deck plates as its all terrain wheels propel the lower half of its body up the wall behind him; in a flash, the drone then compresses its suspension pushing off with extreme agility towards his target. The A.I. DET/CSI unit then tackles the unaware runaway from behind before it can make it too far, knocking both of the units rolling onto the ground. In the distance, a security detachment can be seen running full tilt towards the commotion.
  • "Mahn awive!! I weally nheed to get mhu hands uhn thad dhrone..." That was all that the highly impressed Gurista pirate, Umi Rylan could get out before being collared and shackled by the detachment of Navy soldiers which came up from behind him.

    • ---


  • At least Spade now knew for certain what the murder weapon in this case was; though its design was still foreign to him, his assailant was expending a lot of its own energy stores in order to maintain it. Max logs the thought. Now I know why the coward was trying to run. Never have I seen such a weapon... this fella's defintely got enough strength to do some real damage with it but it takes way too much out of him... The only remaining mystery to Spade's logic circuits in this case, leaving them still somewhat puzzled by the behaviour of this one drone, was reason enough to causes the A.I. DET/CSI unit to run a full diagnostic scan on the maintenance drone's base A.I. program; a normally easy effort now contaminated with unending resistence. After a few repeated attempts, the results of his diagnostic finally reveal an invisible packet of parasitic coding coiled throughout the drone's A.I. functions. Finally, the culprit... I gotcha now you little bastard, there's no escape for you....
  • Unfortunately, Spade finds himself ill equiped for disabling the aggressive nature of the anti-intrusion programming on the now visible packet of coding embedded into the maintenance drone's A.I. functions. Dammit! This is just beyond my abilities... This guy's full of surprises today. His reasoning circuits reach an uneasy conclusion: at best, all that he could really do was create a copy of the virus within a quarantine for future dissection and analysis. He logs the results.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#15 - 2015-05-29 21:15:40 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • As the two were still caught within each other's constraining physical embrace, the entirety of this rogue drone's programmed being fought back on every level against the Detective unit and its possible capture. While wrestling back and forth on the ground, Spade happens to notice just to the side of where he was now, the spot where 'his piece Lucille' had skidded off to. He begins trying to redirect their roll on the ground, inching the pair closer towards it. With an unmatched agility and speed, Max plants a few well placed haymakers, following it with a crushing heatbutt continually smashing the rogue's metallic head against the deckplates below it. As shards of broken metal and electronic chips clatter around the pair, the Spade unit was able to incur enough damage to the maintenance drone's sensor network to partially blind it to the area immediately surrounding it. Taking the opportunity with a newly freed arm at its disposal, the sheer force of the assailant's luminescent blade shears through one of Max's chest cavity panels, knocking the Spade unit off center. Using the momentum created by the momentary distraction to roll itself into a better position, the drone pins Max's arms and metal framework to the ground as two mini plasma torches spring to life from either side of its chest cavity; its obvious intention was of quickly welding the A.I. DET/CSI unit' frame to the deckplates beneath them.
  • Ahhhh, You crazy voiceless bastard-- Grinning back against the sparking artificially searing pain, Max with all the recoil tension in his lower half that he can possibly muster into a single burst of effort, finally kicks the body of the hovering drone off and away from his prone form. With nothing really anchoring it to the deckplates, it violently sails back against the metallic side of a warehouse storage vault before it can properly react; as it bounces it creates a small crater within the container wall. From its cracked center, a small oozing flow of nanopaste begins to melt slowly down the side. More than likely from another broken and dented container held within. The drone then smashes back to the ground momentarily stunned by the lack of available information being relayed by its sensors. Stumbling around in the half digital dark, the rogue unit begins making hasty internal repairs to its damaged systems, taking advantage of the available nanites. A few meters away, the turtle like form of Spade begins rocking his slightly welded frame back and forth attempting to pry himself free from the floor.
  • Clank. Clank. Clank. Finally with a few quick successive smashes with a closed hammer like fist to the decking beneath him, he shatters the welds binding him. Luckily freeing himself just in the nick of time, as the maintenance drone manages to complete his own sensor repairs. It was fair to say that during this melee, the pair were pretty evenly matched in skill; a few of the observing guards in the periphery were even placing bets on the winner. Where ever this rogue drone was, Spade would be there too, waiting. With the pain program in his back subsiding through completion of its cycle, Maxwell takes a quick glance down towards his chest cavity. Then turning his full attention back towards the culprit, he chirps out a curse. Dammit! That was my favourite shirt...
  • As per security protocols dictated, this area of the hanger bay was now completely contained, with more heavily armed reinforcements pouring in from all sides; each aimed at ending the destructive conflict playing out here. One way or another, this battle would come to an end. Things being the way they stood, the situation apparently became very desperate for the rogue. Yet unknown to those around it, 'Initializing Covert/ Infiltration Avoidance Protocols... protocols enacted.' was all that this drone silently understood. In an odd reversal of their previous roles, the murder suspect now had his back pressed up against the wall of the dented cargo container; it continued to use the nanites.
  • Give it up kid, there's no way out of this... Once again standing face to face with its opponent with little to no reserves left for its primary weapon, both sets of artificial 'eyes' turn towards the dormant weapon lying within easy reach of both grasps. The intent contained within its stare was fairly clear; it would be the hard way. Awww, c'mon kid. Cut me a break will ya? You don't want to do this... The maintenance drone only appeared further undetered in its intentions. To the slow meaty eyes of the human observer, the scene would appear as only a flash as both units react at the exact same time. In the background, some of the almost idle drone units and cargo vessel A.I. systems were making wagers on the outcome. In the space of that one instant, both units make a full out dive for possesion of the loose, primed weapon.
  • CRACK. Only one hand would reach the butt of the rail first; quickly ramming it forcefully into the face of the other, knocking that drone stumbling backwards slightly. Then taking careful aim at the outline of the tiny black spade emblem embedded onto its head, it then opens fire. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Lucille unloads her full furry into the area of the drone housing the artificial intelligence, expending what was left in the severed clip and rail chambers. With a flicker, the remainder of the drone's body falls uselessly to the ground, the last of its energy reserves spent.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#16 - 2015-05-29 21:18:01 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • Standing victoriously over the lifeless body of his nemisis, Maxwell Spade makes one final diagnostic sweep over the A.I. programming; the nanites had copied the intrusive packet of coding into one of the unit's dormant secondary systems. With his diagnostic utilities now complete in the dissection and analysis of the parasite programming, he now had a means of neutralizing and purging the virus from the rogue MAINT318 unit's systems. Initializing program decontamination... Program decontamination complete. The A.I. DET/CSI unit's last act before collecting his tumbled black fedora from the ground, was of scolding the surrounding humans for their lack of assistance in the matter. Hey, thanks for all the help there fellas... Spade logs the thought.
  • With the hanger bay surveillance capturing security footage and a Fed Navy ID of the man who was responsible for the drone's infection just a day before the murder, the dame now had her connection; he was a male, Gallentean human with nothing distinct about his physical appearance. An unusual characteristic, since every generation of Gallente trend bred into themselves something of note. For a meatbag, he looked quite ordinary in all accounts. As for his personnel file, it only states that the man holds the rank of Strike Commander within the Federation Navy; it contains no other personal details, not even a name. To further the mystery, the man also used a SDII security clearance to gain access to the hanger, and then tried to delete the logs. This information was quickly gathered together with 'all the compliments' of the hanger bay's A.I. system. A final act of paperwork that would neatly wrap up all the loose elements in his part of this investigation. All I got for you is a physical description of the man, his rank and clearance. Silently wishing; I can only hope its enough for ya doll face.... Max Spade readjusts the hat on his head, tipping it slightly to the absent Lieutenant. To the casual observer, the damaged A.I. DET/CSI unit was a complete mess in need of some automated care. Oh man. Do I ever need a drink...
  • Case closed. The drone logs the thought.

    • ---



    Epilogue:


    ---


  • Over the course of the past week, life aboard the space station has finally returned to normal. The captured Gurista captain Umi Rylan finds himself lying on a cot within one of the holding cells of a dead man. Umi knew he was a pirate; he revelled in something he was born to be. Unfortunately with his current situation the way it was, it also meant that if stays put in this cell much longer, the man would surely hang. Notwithstanding, Rylan has just productively spent the last week idly biding his time, wating for his 'right' moment. To be fair to the man, he honestly didn't mind a lay up here and there. Besides, at this point his conversations with the mix of the now permanently stationed human guards has become stagnant; within a few hours of his capture, he had already found out everything he needed to know about the location of the A.I. DET/CSI unit. To Umi, this was of course, intentional. "Heya Mark. Mark. Mark... hey Mark--"
  • "For christsakes... It's Marcus. Pleasssse... for the love of God, just stop talking..."
  • "Marcus?? Are you sure?"
  • "Yes, I know my own name."
  • "I really don't know how I could gotten that mixed up." The Gurista squints one of his eyes, giving the man a discerning glance. "Un, Uhuh. You know something, you look like a Mark. But then again, what do I know? Haven't had any liquor in me for a week now. Hahahaha.... You still sure you can't give a dying man a last drink?"
  • "For the last time, NO." Marcus makes a quick pushing away motion with his hands into the air. "I can't take this-- I'm done. I'm taking my lunch" Pushing an intercom button. "Hey Remi, let's go to lunch."
  • *Static.* "Gotcha."
  • "I can't take you anymore." He inputs a series of commands into the guard station panel; two very menacing security drones hover in from outside positioning themselves on either side of the guard station. Hovering into the room just behind them was a rather funny looking, tiny custodial drone; it was strangely emitting a rather pleasant sounding series of low chiming noises. His purpose in the cell block area was already pre-programmed into it as a scheduled predictable task; Umi was waiting for this one pre-determined moment. Collecting his possesions, the guard then leaves his station confident that the man within the cell would be there to annoy him some more when he got back from his lunch. The doors close behind him leaving Umi Rylan as the only biological within the entire room. With a snicker, he just grunts his disapproval.
  • "What's his problem? All I asked for was a drink."
  • The tiny custodial drone continued undeterred in its work, chiming out a little tune while it worked, scrubbing and sanitizing its little artificial heart out as it effortlessly hovered across the metal floor plates. It definitely appeared very content in its role. The unit suddenly gets stopped by the sound of a biological leak pattering and pooling on the floor somewhere outside of its current cell. Stopping to listen more intently, the sound stops. Shrugging it off as nothing, the drone then continues on with its work again. Once more, it registers hearing the sound, this time leaving the cell in order to investigate further. From the occupied prison cell at the other end of the block, the human occupant can be seen urinating out of its cell onto the cellblock floors. The tiny custodial drone chirps a grunt of dissaproval, instinctively rushing over to the spot to clean up the mess.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...
Enya Sparhawk
Black Tea and Talons
#17 - 2015-05-29 21:20:24 UTC  |  Edited by: Enya Sparhawk

  • "Ho Ho Ho!! Don't like that do ya? Here have some more." Pinching off and letting fly, the jovial pirate leads a stream of puddles to finally settle within his own cell for the tiny drone to follow and clean. The pair of sentry security drones merely stand silent during the entire altercation; the human hasn't left the confines of his cell. Once inside arm's reach of the pirate, the human makes his move lunging for the drone before it has a chance to escape. Turning it over onto its back, the rigger Umi Rylan then begins removing the various tools needed for his trade from within the mechanical parts embedded throughout his own body. With the set now out in the open, like a surgeon he begins to work on dismantling the parts of the tiny drone. A capacitor battery unit. The drone's transponder unit. Various wires and micro conduits. A tiny half full metallic container of highly alcoholic cleaning solution; he tucks that into one of his belt pouches for later use. While busy salvaging various other parts and recombining them into something else, Umi absently whistles a tune that had somehow got stuck into his head.
  • "There, that should just about do it--" He says, snapping the last piece of his digital puzzle together. "Now let's see if this works." Standing up from the cot, the man takes in a deep breath, then steps through the energy field of the security door to his cell; the pair of sentries still stand silent. "Ah! Success!" He then makes short work of accessing the holographic terminal of the empty guard station; this man was hard wired to think in triplicate. Cleaning up the loose ends of his little legal mess, at least digitally, he then sends an encrypted message to intiate contact with his superiors within the organization; a Caldari male of civre decent answers his call.
  • --"Umi!?! Where the hell have you been? Tako-Ryoushi is threatening to put a bounty out on your head. When you didn't check in a few days ago, he thought that you were trying to unload his drone somewhere for a quick buck."--
  • "Oh Huy-lo Martin." At hearing himself speaking these words out loud, the man bursts out into a quick boisterous laugh before he continues a bit more seriously. "Man, I've been in the clink this past week. I'm actually calling you from there now. You tell Ryoushi to cool his afterburners, I haven't found his drone yet. His intel was wrong, It just wasn't here. Tell him I got something better though. Damn thing's got some sort of magnetic recoil suspension integrated through its chasis. Never seen anything like it before..."
  • --"You can tell him yourself. I'm not an errand boy. So what are you going to do now?"--
  • "I think I found something in that drone here that could help us in our search. I'm on my way to collect it now... Yoh! They also got my girl Martin-- Without 'Winter', my junks just dangling in the wind here, so I'm going to need some rather discreet transport for myself and some cargo. Can ya make it happen?"
  • --"Shouldn't be a problem Umi. Just be glad you got pinched by the Fed's; if you were in Caldari space, you'd probably already be dead. They'll be waiting for you at the 'usual spot'. Martin out."-- The conversation between the two abruptly disconnects.
  • Pffft. "Speak for yourself." Grabbing a loose data pad from the station, he quickly reconfigures it for his intended use. His very last thoughts contained within this cell block being: Now to get my hands on that securtiy drone. Umi Rylan then leaves the area whistling an unforgettable tune.

---


I would like to dedicate this short story to Tako-Ryoushi (the Octopus Hunter); a single minded man of many choices.

Fíorghrá: Grá na fírinne

Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad.

Bíonn súil le muir ach ní bhíonn súil le tír.

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir.

When the lost ships of Greece finally return home...