2012-04-25: Tin Can Waltz


Cyril_icon.jpg Echo_icon.jpg

Summary: Cyril does some fixing on Echo. Does talking.

Date: 4/25/2012

Log Title: Tin Can Waltz

Rating: PG-13

Hell's Kitchen - Cyril's Clinic

Amidst all the garbage and darker, shorter buildings is a two story cobblestone building. The entrance being a descending staircase below ground level to a pair of barred, glass doors. A bolted sign labels the clinic just as much, marked further with a colored cross denoting it as such. Inside the main entrance is a standard waiting room that is kept in impeccable condition compared to the clinic's outward appearance. A standard carpet of clean design makes up the floor, while chairs of a matching design line the walls. Behind a booth of bulletproof glass is a woman of a younger age in nurse's scrubs.

Considering its location and probable clientele, it likely comes as no surprise that people would enter with injuries beyond the commonplace. The buzzer over the doors chimes with a soft *bing-bong* shortly after a silhouette appears at the entrance, a woman pushing her way inside. The left leg of her jeans is stained with rusty brown from thigh to knee from a wide gash. Her hair is matted, pulled down over one half of her face but not entirely hiding a glimpse of bloodless, bone-white beneath. She limps into the waiting room, favoring her right leg heavily. "Doctor," Echo demands quietly, keeping her face visible to the nurse only in right profile. "Now. Call him."

The nurse looks wide-eyed at the silhouette entering the clinic. Luckily, there doesn't appear to be anyone else in the waiting room at the moment, and so the nurse is quickly able to leave her desk and summon Cyril. Enter stage left, Cyril opens the door to the back offices and enters the waiting room. A white lab coat, brown khakis, and blue scrubs make up the entirety of his uniform. He seems to be in a bit of a bustle, "Yes? What's wr-." At the sight of Echo, Cyril merely stops and stares for a moment, then with a somber voice he says, "Hello, Echo."

"Cyril," she responds laconically. Without waiting for an offer or invitation, she limps to the door, driving the doctor back by the implication that she simply is not going to stop or take no for an answer. On closer inspection, there are multiple cuts on her left side, going straight through the material of her jacket and shirt. It looks as if there is a hole or a gouge in the side of her neck. And what can be seen underneath the curtain of hair over the left side of her face looks suspiciously like bone. "I need t-####… to use your internet access."

No need, for Cyril steps to the side to let the killerbot through. Stoically, the doctor says to the woman at the counter, "Tricia, watch the front for me, won't you? If there's an emergency, just page me." After which, Cyril follows Echo to the back offices. From behind the door in the lobby is a hallway, and that hallway leads to many smaller rooms. The room Cyril takes Echo to is the room in the far back, which is obviously the doctor's office, a converted surgery room. The room is darker, dimmed at 50% light. A surgery table is in the middle of the room, and various drawers of various kinds line the walls. The cabinets all but removed to fit an industrial metal desk, where a top of the line computer sits on the said desk. "What happened, Echo?"

She doesn't answer immediately, limping directly to the computer and sitting on the stool there. It creaks under her weight. Hands go to the keyboard and begin to type but her right seems sluggish, seizing occasionally. "There was a fight." Grimacing, Echo reaches into her left sleeve and draws out a short length of cable with trembling fingers, plugging it into the front USB port of the computer. Windows flash open and closed quickly, the internet browser, a free email website, text filling the boxes quickly and, apparently, automatically. "I lost."

Cyril grimaces, "I don't suppose this is a good time to tell you that I told you so." The doctor folds his arms, "Do you want me to look at you? I know a bit about electronics." Apparently, Cyril isn't very interested with what's happening on the computer. It is a very powerful machine for what a doctor requires, though.

The window flashes after a brief pause. Message Sent. Echo struggles with her right hand to grip the USB cable and unplug it. "No, it isn't," she replies. "I had every advantage but I couldn't even injure him." Whatever business she had with the computer already concluded, she turns on the stool to look at the doctor, sweeping the matted down hair away from her face. Most of it is… simply gone. Bare silver-white is revealed in a large patch on the left side like the Phantom of the Opera's half-mask, synthetic skin scraped away and missing. The metal is marred by dark scratches in starburst patterns. Two clear overlapping holes gape in her temple. Her left eye is sunken in its socket, cracked and unmoving, the lids unable to close completely over it. "I've sent for help, but you may look."
The doctor's eyebrows raise as he steps aside, motioning towards the surgery table. "I can at least remove some of the broken parts and bandage you up. It may not actually heal you, but…" Cyril moves toward a chest at the side of the room, removing some gauze and other things.

"The cosmetic damage doesn't matter as much," Echo says, waving her left hand dismissively. "Mobility loss in the left leg and right hand, moreso. Damage to optics and internal systems is… critical." Her head turns slightly to focus her undamaged right eye on Cyril and his medical supplies. She frowns skeptically. "What are you going to do, stitch the metal back together?" she asks, voice positively dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm sure I could, at the expense of some of my needles. No, I'm going to cover your cosmetic damage so you can at least present humanoid again, or have you stopped worrying about whether or not people know you're an android?" Bandages in hand, Cyril places them on a table by the larger surgery table. Additional tools are brought to the smaller table as Cyril talks. "Given some time, we can see what we can do. Do you mind sitting on the table so I can get a closer look?"

"Everyone and their dog seems to be able to figure it out anyway," says the android, surprisingly grumpily. With some strain, she lifts up from the stool. The wound in her thigh becomes wet again with seepage of a thin, red-orange fluid. "And judging from what I've seen of New York so far, it's not even as suspicious or unusual as I thought it would be." Heaving to sit on the table, she pulls off her jacket and begins to pull up her sliced t-shirt as well, mindful of the damage to her face.

"Everyone and their dog's grandmother, not likely. You'll find that most people here in New York are oblivious to that which is obvious. There are a select few, like me, who are able to see the unseen." says Cyril with a frown, starting a physical inspection of Echo's chassis. Of foremost concern is that liquid coming from Echo's thigh, and Cyril is not shy to poke around the damage area with whatever tools he has. "What damage is most critical and can you perform any sort of internal analysis detailing the nature of the problem, and cause? Also, what will you do now?"

"Still too many. They just seem to know." Echo unbuttons her jeans and wiggles on the table to shuck them down. Modesty is of little or no apparent concern. The wound on her thigh is bone-deep and over three inches across. An oblong section of black thigh muscles twitches, loose from its anchor but apparently uncut, fragments of a shattered bracket littering the wound. Two slightly smaller cuts are on her stomach and lower rib cage respectively, but they aren't leaking. The hole in her neck is quite clearly a bullet hole, the slug flattened and still visible against bundles of black cloth wrapped muscles. "Left eye is unusable. Water ducts leaking and unusable. Primary gyroscope damaged and unusable. First memory core damaged, extent unknown." She gives Cyril a look. "Cause is getting my ass kicked badly, and I plan on being repaired."

Immediately Cyril sets about removing broken pieces from the leg wound. Clamps usually used for holding things opened are used to clamp down muscles and also to keep the wound open, which may require a bit of excessive force. The discarded pieces of metal are placed in a bowl on the table stand. Cyril doesn't seem to be bothered by the lack of modesty at all. "Does your gyroscope use standard 6-din outs? I have an old gyroscope from a missile guidance system here somewhere. Maybe not be as accurate as yours, but will do the job. And who are you contacting to be repaired?"

All the mucking about in her open wounds is thankfully easier than with most patients. She doesn't squirm or scream, at the very least. A thin tube, an eight of an inch or less, has been cleanly cut and bubbles the ochre fluid occasionally. Echo blinks her good eye. Reluctantly and almost with embarrassment, she replies, "I… don't know. Only that it's be-##ng reported as damaged and offline." Her voice is momentarily glitched, like an auto-tune gone bad, but it stops quickly. "Someone who will help. He offered to help me, like you did, for no reward. I'm *not* contacting the people who made me," she assures.

Cyril, spotting the tube, clamps it to find the other end, and if possible seal it with some tin foil, then pipe wrap, then electrical tape. After drying the area of course. If such isn't possible, the tube is completely sealed. "You should contact Mike, he knows a bit about machines from what I can tell." says the doctor while working on his 'mechanical patient'. "Do you at least know where the gyroscope is or how to get at it?" After the tube work, effort is made to reattach the cloth muscle to anchor.

"Mike Drakos?" the android asks, surprised. Her right eyebrow arches. The patch and seal seems to hold, for now, but the muscle is difficult to stretch back to its anchor. Apparently it is under constant tension. "If so, he's the person I just emailed." She scowls down at the doctor. "The gyroscope is in the forward central cranial cavity," Echo says, tapping the center of her forehead, precisely the location of Ajna chakra. "And no, I don't know how to get at it. I don't exactly have a user's manual and wasn't taught to self-repair."

Cyril furrows his eyebrows, "I don't think I have the tools to fix this muscle. But I've fixed the leak." All the same, he begins bandaging up the leg, "I could stretch it into place, but I don't have any way to reclamp it to the anchor. You might need a new anchor entirely, or new mounts." After which, Cyril moves to Echo's face, and examining the entry wounds and cranial area for access points. That may include lifting up artificial skin. "Yes, Mike Drakos. You know him, then. Would you like me to accompany you on your visit to him?"

Echo helpfully pulls her hair back to allow closer examination. Aside from the torn away flesh, there is very little external damage, only scratches and discoloration. Whatever dull silver-white metal her skull is made of, it's very tough against normal bullets. Armor-piercing rounds, however, have left two neat, dark holes, overlapping in a figure-eight. The left eye is cracked, like fractured crystal, sunken and immobile in its socket. "That won't be necessary. I told him to come here."

Cyril walks away, if only to return with a /very/ thin tool. Again, synthetic flesh is held aside as the tool is pressed into the seam. The doctor is looking for internal latches to slowly unbolt the head.

( One of the organically curved metal panels of Echo's skull gives a click and shifts, free to wiggle a few millimeters. "I would appreciate," the android says calmly. "If you wouldn't touch anything in there that you don't understand. Though I know you're trying to help, you may accidentally do more harm than good. Please be careful." )

Cyril moves the tool and continues to work it against latches, "I'll close you back up if I am lost. In a worst case scenario, at least Mike is coming now. But you may want to hold very still for me." Not that Echo has much of a choice at this point, "So, this begs the question. I used to be in the military, and your build reminds me of that make.. Who were you made by?"

"Pandora Innovations," Echo replies, only her mouth moving. She is extremely good at holding still. "My BIOS says as much." When the panel finally comes away, the interior of her head is revealed to be extremely cramped. As much as possible was crammed into it as efficiently as possible. Short sections of rainbow-colored ribbon cables link certain components, thicker braided cloth cables connecting others. It's obvious where the bullets went, one of them lodge in the upper portion of a silver cylinder exactly where she described it, behind and between both eyes, which must be the gyroscope. The other is nowhere to be seen but the trajectories are clear, tearing through cables intricate parts toward the deep center. Nothing, absolutely nothing is labeled.

"Fantastic," says Cyril looking at the components, setting one of the cranial pieces aside for the moment. The wires are examined on the gyroscope and a fine jeweler's screwdriver is used to begin removing the gyroscope. Regardless, it has to come out. Thankfully, with Cyril's fine hands, the removal should be steady.

"I feel I need to ask, but are you sure you know what you're doing?" Echo asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Partially," replies Cyril, as he reaches in to disconnect the gyroscope, "Tell me if anything happens." And following that warning, the gyro is disconnected.

Echo makes a sound, like a sharp hissing inhale. Her hands tense but nothing else moves. "That… hurt." She sounds confused. "Why did that hurt? What did you do?" The damaged component is not easy to negotiate in the confined space, wires needing to be bent out of the way. Fortunately, it seems, the bullet damage has severed or dislodged enough to make it easier than it otherwise would be.

Following the careful removal the gyro, Cyril holds it in front of Echo, "I removed your damaged gyroscope. It doesn't look like my gyro will work as a replacement. I can try, but it might take some jury rigging. It may also take me a little bit. I'd need to get my multimeter and check some things."

"No," the android refuses quickly, emphatically. There is a slight sway to her movement as she turns to regard Cyril with her good eye. "I'll wait for Mike. You can remove any bullet fragments you find but please don't disconnect anything else."

"Indeed," replies Cyril, setting the gyro aside. Some time is spent removing bullet fragments, delicately. After some silence, Cyril asks quietly, "How do you feel?"

"I didn't expect there to be pain," Echo confides. "It was unsettling. Otherwise, no different than before. There are still several critical systems failures." She flexes her right hand. It hitches and freezes in the motion. "Sluggish. One third of my memory and processor systems are offline."

"That's not what I meant," replies Cyril, still removing metal shards, "How do you feel right now? Emotionally."

The android is quiet. Her good eye blinks a few times and the silence stretches on until it almost seems that Cyril is not going to get an answer to his question. "Vulnerable."

"Vulnerable?" replies Cyril, attempting to get Echo to expand on what she means by that reply. Some time is spent looking around to see if there's any additional damage in that big clump of electronics.

"I was beaten. Utterly. I couldn't even inflict return injuries." From inside her skull, it's obvious that Echo's good eye is turning toward Cyril, though the rest of her head doesn't move. The damaged eye tries but is seized, a tiny motor whine straining but failing. "I could have died." A pause. "I don't want to die."

"I'm sorry," says Cyril, who then clips a wire to the motor behind her eye, fully aware that it will probably hurt a lot. After which, Cyril jerks back in case Echo herself moves, just to prevent damage to anything else in her head, "Why are you scared of dying?"

The tiny motor grinds and strains, but cannot move the eye. Echo bares her teeth but makes no sound this time. She puts a hand to the side of her head, like someone with a headache. "I'm not frightened of it," she says, defensively. "I just don't want to. And I'll do anything not to." The android turns, looking at him with with both eyes, fractured and whole. They are hard, set. "Anything."

"I suppose that's very human of you," states Cyril, completing the disconnection of the motor's power to prevent it from functioning further. That finished, Cyril begins closing Echo's head back up, "I've disconnected your eye to prevent the motor from burning out. Mike will be able to reconnect it when the jam is fixed." The doctor frowns a small bit, "I care about you, and I hope you don't die, you know. You strange killbot."

Echo says nothing, pulling her clothes back on once the panel in her skull is closed again. She places a black Beretta pistol on the nearest counter, a black knife next to it within easy reach. "Apply your bandages. Show Mike in when he arrives. I'll wait here," she says, hard emotionless tone returning. A slight nod is all the acknowledgment or thanks Cyril gets for now. "Knock first."

Cyril shrugs and applies further bandages to Echo's head, in order to mask what grievous damage remains. The process takes a short while, and little more is said from Cyril's point. Following the bandaging, the doctor makes his way to the door, stopping to look back at Echo, "If I catch you hacking on my computer, I'll kick you out of my house." At which point, Cyril exits.

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