udonoodles — Roleplayer Guild

<Snipped quote by Retired>

chiming in to say i'm still here. i've mostly recovered from my illness, but to be honest, i wasn't going to post because i was anticipating the event being moved along—i didn't want to potentially throw a wrench in the plans with an unseen post if you had, say, half the work done on the next GM post with what was already there. maybe an error in communication on my part, but regardless, i'm back on board for the foreseeable future. i should have a post out by the end of the week at the very latest, most likely sometime over the weekend.@udonoodles

i do actually have a post done, but as it stands im more happy with the concept of it than i am the execution. this time, i should actually have it out in the next day or so: i just need to rewrite and brush it up a bit, which shouldn't take too long given i have a solid foundation to build on. 

speaking of optimism, i've been mulling over some potential plots and villains for victor. i'm going to consider my ideas a bit more, but i should be ready to start filling out his rogue's gallery soon enough.

S T A R K  I N D U S T R I E S  P R E S E N T S . . .T H E  V I S I O N

> ADENOSINE SIMULACRUM ANTAGONISED 
 > INITIATING WAKEFULNESS PROTOCOL 
 > FOUND 3 ERRORS IN AMYGDALAN REGULATION SUBSYSTEMS. CONTINUE BOOT?
 > BOOTING...

A thin-faced, black haired man stared through the one-way glass at Victor, thumbing the arm of his glasses and staring dumbfoundedly. 
“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a radio, Adrian,” Martinella sighed, arms crossed. “He asked me to take it apart so he could put it back together.”

And that was exactly what Victor was doing. Humming a Cole Porter classic to himself, he ran his finger along the underside of what appeared to be a power cable. As he went, he left behind sparks of white-hot heat, soldering the wire to the circuit board below once it made contact. 

“Why the—” Adrian scoffed, guffawing in incredulity. “Why would he ask for that?”

Dr. Mancha pinched her brow, visibly unimpressed. “Because when you create an intelligence intended to mimic a human brain as closely as possible, one of the unfortunate side effects is that they tend to get bored from time to time.”

“Bored? he’s a robot,” Adrian hissed through teeth more often gritted than not. “He’s not supposed to get bored,” An undertone of nervousness crept into his impatience. “Nothing with a one-of-a-kind goddamn fusion reactor in its chest should have the capacity to get bored.” 

“Oh, so when Newsfront wants to know, he’s a new form of life. But when we have to actually treat him like one,” Martinella held her hands up, mimicking Adrian’s tone. “He’s back to being just a robot.”

“And who told you we were aiming to “mimic the human brain”? If you’ve been listening to the Newsfront segments, then you should remember that we wanted to go beyond that.” 

“Yes. And the team’s idea for going beyond the capabilities of the human mind was a teenager in desperate need of Adderall without the ability to take it. So, again, bored.”

“He’s not a teenager, Martinella. Some of the algorithms and mental processing systems used to program his thought patterns are older than both of us. He’s perfectly capable of—”

“Professor Reginald Aubrey Fessenden was the first person to broadcast their voice over radio.” Victor looked up from his work, staring off into space as he recited the fact. “On Christmas Eve 1906, Professor Fessenden played "O Holy Night" on the violin, and read a brief passage from the Bible.” With his knowledge espoused, Victor set back to work. 

“...Okay,” Adrian acknowledged trepidatiously. “That was creepy as hell.” Maybe she was right about the Adderall thing. 

Martinella just sighed, rolling her eyes. “He knows we’re here. He’s trying to make conversation.”
“Well, he’s terrible at it. And "he knows we’re here” is the creepiest way you could have phrased that.”

“Well, maybe Victor’s terrible at it because we keep him locked in a room all day, Adrian. Maybe that’s had an effect on his social skills, Adrian, what do you think?” 

“I think you’re a regular Doctor Frankenstein, Martinella-”

Click, whirr, buzz. 
“The electrical components have been assembled! Now, I’ll test it.” 

“Impressive time,” Martinella remarked coolly. 

Adrian cast a hasty glance around Victor's chamber. Not a single tool in sight. “How did he—” Adrian leaned forward, tapping the button to enable the intercom. He fumbled with the microphone, bending it upwards to accommodate his beanstalk-like frame. “How did you get the screws in, Vision?”

Victor smiled, cocking his head. “I used my fingers,” he raised a hand, keeping each finger held up and then bringing them down in a wave, timing it so that each finger made contact with his palm at the same time. “Just a simple twisting motion.” 

Adrian turned towards Martinella, furrowing his brow and mouthing “What the fuck?”, probably imagining that simple twisting motion being put into action on some poor sap’s neck.  

Martinella shrugged, smirking. 

Their silence was interrupted by a sudden crackle, and the warping of noise to noise as a voice made it through a sea of static. 
“I'm sorry, we've got a breaking news report. Sources are reporting an explosion and multiple gunshots here in downtown Manhattan. Police are attempting to cordon off the area, but eyewitnesses claim a super-human is on the scene, and…”

Victor frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Reed Richards.”

One of the Vision’s most lauded abilities during the initial publicity circuit was his crisis response time. Stark Industries proudly proclaimed that, by their estimates, the Arc Reactor could enable him to reach speeds equivalent to that of a fighter jet when necessary. “By their estimates”, of course, was the bit they said under their breath—they were eager to actually test it, but there was the ever present danger that the Vision didn’t quite have the holistic control over his body’s functions required to not immediately liquefy his spine on acceleration. A survivable injury for someone whose body fit together less like a fragile piece of pottery, and more like a child’s jigsaw puzzle, but synthetic spines didn’t exactly grow on trees.

They could, if the Farm Tech and Botany Division would get off their asses and stop playing with their little mushrooms, Adrian had once remarked.

Regardless, they had some very lofty promises to catch up to. Fortunately for them, they were safe from a grilling when it came to speed—not on actual merit, but by the grace of Howard Stark’s ghost, Waterside Plaza happened to be a fifteen minute drive from Midtown Manhattan.
Victor, fuelled by the fun-sized equivalent of a nuclear reactor, and unbeholden to traffic laws save for “try not to hit any pigeons,” could clear it in a little over five. 

Zeroing in on the scene of the attack didn’t prove difficult. Throngs of cars and pedestrians hurriedly rushing away from the carnage became specks of foolhardy bystanders eager to catch a glimpse of superpowers at play. It was an easy trail to follow, only further assisted by the cracking of gunfire. 
From on high, someone with vision as keen as, well, the Vision’s could easily survey the situation. 

Now that was interesting. From a cursory glance, it appeared that a gang of armed thugs were attempting to steal a Roxxon energy tanker. But from that sentence alone, a being of logic such as himself could easily deduce holes in the story. Whether gas or liquid, whatever was inside that tanker was either highly flammable or highly explosive. To fire guns so haphazardly around it was wildly dangerous—if the integrity of the tanker was compromised, the goons could lose a lot more than just their cargo. Yet, they had thrown the truck onto its side and now appeared to be attempting to syphon out its contents. It was a wildly dangerous, woefully impractical plan with several much simpler, more lucrative alternatives—which meant something else had to be going on. There was more to this than a stickup for fuel. 

Victor had entered the planning equivalent of his approach when, out of seemingly nowhere, a great skyfaring vessel swooped down into his airspace. Immediately, his attention was snapped away from the fight and towards the airship—and somewhere in Stark Tower, Martinella Mancha’s analysis of his mental state was vindicated. 

His eyes were alight with excitement—and actual light, given he was refocusing the aperture of his ocular subsystems—as he watched the Fantastic Four take their place. The Fantastic Four. And Reed Richards! He mostly cared about Reed Richards. Given that he was irrevocably burned into Victor’s brain, anyone that remotely resembled Howard Stark scientifically garnered his immediate interest. 

This was going to be fun! Also, terribly daunting. And wildly dangerous. He may die! Uncertainty brought such a maelstrom of emotions. There were at least five happening to him, right now. He could actually, literally feel the manufactured simulacrum of adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

Slowly, silently, Victor hovered down from on high, above the Fantastic Four’s landing spot. He paused, staring down at them. He swallowed. 
What was he actually supposed to say? Was there a procedure of introduction? Did he have to greet everyone individually, or would just one, general “hello” do the trick? Was hello appropriate during a superpowered standoff? Maybe a “greetings”? “Salutations”? “Hola”, as Stark Industries’ PR were eager to get him to say?

Tentatively, Victor lowered himself down to the ground, red boots plodding to the ground with two muffled footfalls. He adjusted the cells in his body so as to slick his hair back hands-free, and stepped forward. He leaned in, across the Fantastic Four, and drew an open palm across his face as a hello. 
“Hi. I…” He paused, furrowing his brow. “...Work here. Are both groups present the bad guys, or are we cooperating with one of them?”
Victor smiled sheepishly, before remembering where he was. He straightened up, taking two steps forward and holding his hands out. His fingers crackled with an arcing blue energy, the Arc Reactor thrumming and glowing through his suit. 

“It’s interesting that the tanker hasn’t exploded yet,” he announced loudly, still ready for a fight. “I shall kick any asses in its vicinity and move it to a safe location. If that is agreeable? I’ll defer to seniority.”
He had, unintentionally, just called them old. Which, relatively speaking, was partially false, given the age of his kernel. But he meant it as a show of respect: Like he said, he’d take orders from the most experienced, which just happened to be the man most closely intellectually resembling his allegorical father. 
He didn’t yet have the vocabulary to begin deconstructing that one, so he’d file it away and not think about it.

udonoodles Member

the adults are talking

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts