hadriel_logs | What Has Never Lived Cannot Die (Open)

Who: Oscar (

onlyanautomaton) and you!
What: A confused, newly reactivated automaton.
Where: West Island, outdoors.
When: Backdated to late morning of August 17th
Warnings: Minor memory loss. Character 'death'. Will update with others if needed.

Oscar's body reactivates with a jolt that automatically sends it reeling smoothly upward into a vertical sitting position.

It remains there as its primary components recalibrate. He analyzes the input being delivered through his sensors, taking in details of his surroundings little by little. His gear systems click and whirr with fervor, reveling in their renewed state of animation. Within a few seconds, his internal mechanisms have started to slow in their pace, making a gradual return to their usual tempo. He is now able to access the abundance of information that is his recorded data.

His body has regained functionality.

He lowers himself off the altar. His movements are stiff. He identifies his location after a few moments spent staring with an uncharacteristic stillness at the ceiling towering above him: he is currently inside Mr. Hope's temple. How did he come to be there? He doesn't have the answer to that.

He does know that there is work to be done. There are always duties that he must attend to in the city of Hadriel. Before long, he has unceremoniously taken his leave of the temple, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he decides he must commence his search for Clinic supplies. They are to be delivered by midday and not a moment later.

The quality of natural light suggests to him that his internal clock may require readjustment. He pauses in his rigid march, referring to the device in his pocket for the current date and time so that he may set his own timer to match it.

The last data he logged was from the evening of the 9th. The 10th has come and gone. The time that has elapsed between then and now is exactly seven days, twelve hours, twenty-three minutes and fifty-four seconds.

He stares down at the miniature display.

Another five seconds pass.

His head lifts. He peers around in every direction. His body's exertions and motions become more fluid as he stands there, his confusion palpable.

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Pratt is finally venturing out more. He figures it's time to stop hiding in his house like it's a prepper stash and actually see what his surroundings are like. It's been a month since he arrived, well thirty-eight days according to the hash marks he's been tallying on his wall like the sane person he claims to be, and this is the first time he's seeing one of the churches to these so called gods. Hope's temple is actually a little impressive but he gives it a wide berth, doesn't want to do anything that might make it seem like he believes these false prophets are actually gods. Even looking at the building makes him feel vaguely blasphemous.

There aren't that many people around, which makes the island seem larger and emptier than it probably is. Well there's one other person who seems to be ... stuck. Or lost. Or confused. Something is wrong anyway, the posture and movements seeming not quite right.

All of the torture and conditioning that Pratt has suffered isn't enough to quash down who he is entirely, and the part of him that was a Deputy bubbles to the surface and he heads over to Oscar to see what the problem is. As he gets closer he hesitates a bit, at first thinking he might be one of those guys in big cities who paint themselves like robots and then do dances when you put money in their tip jars. But no, he seems to really be made of metal.

"You okay?" He's not sure if he's really expecting an answer if this actually is some sort of robot. Maybe he's broken? Or ran out of battery? Does he need to be plugged back in?

Oscar turns to face the stranger after a brief moment of pause.

"It would appear that seven and a half days have passed without my knowledge..."

In the time that he delivers his response, he believes he identifies the presentation of at least one potential symptom of illness in his companion.

"Is everything all right, sir?" His synthetic voice is filled with polite concern as he takes in the young man's disheveled appearance and worrying pallor. He doesn't look well at all.

"Seven and a half.. Jesus. Were you unconscious or something?" He asks it instinctually, before realizing that he's not sure if 'conscious' is a state that metal people can be. Maybe he's running Windows XP and shut down unexpectedly, happened to the precinct computers all the time.

"Uh, yeah. Fine. Other than being here I'm fine." He wasn't expecting that, taken aback that someone is inquiring after his well being. No one did that, everyone back home was far too concerned with themselves. When every waking moment was spent struggling for survival there wasn't a lot of time to dwell on how others might be faring.

But for all his instance that he's fine, he really isn't. He's malnourished, emaciated, pale, and sleep deprived. And though he's been here a month he still looks like the skinny little torture victim that he is. At least he's getting better about remembering to eat. It was funny how being a prisoner caused you to forget how to be autonomous when left to yourself. He finds himself hungry at the end of the day simply because Jacob isn't there to feed him.

He'd grown too dependent and subordinate in his time held captive.

[Margaery makes a point of visiting the shops on all of the islands, looking for things she can use at the Sewing Shop. this time, she managed to find a set of sheets in a pretty floral pattern and a jacket she can take apart to make a pattern for similar garments.

as she passes Hope's temple, toting her materials in a large bag, she notices Oscar standing outside of it, looking at. . . something. she can't tell what it is from this distance. so she chooses to go over and greet him as he's been nothing but kind and gracious towards her]

Hello, Oscar. What's that you've got there?

Rather than correct the man on his use of the term 'unconscious', Oscar instead takes a moment to think. He was inside his residence on the night of the 9th. The data he logged directly after that was recorded from inside Mr. Hope's temple this morning...

"I found myself inside Mr. Hope's temple a short time ago," he says by way of reply.

Judging by the man's appearance alone, Oscar disagrees with that assertion. But perhaps he has already sought treatment and is now in the process of recovering. For the time being, he will continue to observe the stranger's movements.

He looks up at the temple as if it's somehow to blame for this.

"But you don't remember how you got there?"

That's pretty standard procedure for the cult back home, drug people and cart them to the various churches and bunkers so they can be brainwashed into submission. All of this is starting to make him a little uneasy. The only thing holding him back from panicking about Bliss and the Reaping is that he's not sure if metal men can even be drugged in the first place.

Cop mode: Activate!

"What's the last thing you remember before the waking up there?"

[The sound of Margaery Tyrell's voice is a welcome one to Oscar. He has grown quite fond of her proclivity for quick-witted banter whenever their paths meet. Most importantly, when he turns to greet her, he sees that she is looking well.]

Good day to you, Ms. Margaery. It would seem that I have not been in operation for seven and a half days. That is what my device is telling me.

[He looks down at the device in question.]

[she's always been clever, but her grandmother honed that trait in her well. and she is looking well. she tries to keep herself looking well and happy at all times. again, a trait her grandmother instilled in her.

her eyes widen in surprise] You've not been in operation? May I ask why not?

[she also looks at it]

[Oscar raises his head to look at her.]

I don't know... But I somehow came to be inside Mr. Hope's temple. I couldn't tell you how I got there.

[she looks back, an expression of concern on her face]

That's terrible! It must have been very confusing.

What Has Never Lived Cannot Die (Open)

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