Secondly, I forgot to mention something IMPORTANT (did that catch everyone's attention? ;) ) about the persocom's. . . er. . . speaking system. Usually they will have the same sort of dialogue as everyone else, represented by the normal "blah blah blah" format. However, in certain modes (such as rebooting mode, etc.) they will talk like this "Blah blah blah" or like this "BLAH BLAH BLAH". The difference between the second two? The latter is more 'robot-like,' for lack of a better word. It's to show that they're working at basic programming and are not anywhere near 'usual.'
Sorry it's so confusing—in the original document I used different fonts to show the changes (it looked a lot cooler), but I can't do that on ff(dot)net. (Now it just looks like they're yelling. (heavy sigh))
Thanks for all of the reviews so far! Please continue to enjoy! XD
XXX
LOGIN TWO:
00 T R; I S H IIIIII
XXX
The result was instantaneous and chaotic.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!" Bakura yelped, flying forward to do. . . something. What he wasn't sure—but that turned out to not be a problem, as Malik knew what to do: pull the young doctor (none too gently) away. "That's OUR machine you're—!"
"Shhh!" Ryou hissed, apparently unaware that he was being dangling by the collar of his button-up shirt. "Look!"
Ka-chunk. . . beeeeeeeep—!
Both students froze, turning their heads in the direction on the young man's finger. . . and of the noise.
"Oh my God. . ." the Egyptian murmured, lavender orbs widening in shock as the limp 'com on the table suddenly sat up— red-brown eyes blank.
"ACTIVATING PROTOTYPE NUMBER 00— T R; I S H. BARCODE: IIIIII. TIME SINCE PREVIOUS USE: 7 MONTHS, 4 DAYS, 3 HOURS, 15 MINUTES, 26.98 SECONDS. REGISTERING NEW MASTER. DNA SAMPLE PROCESSING. . . COMPLETE. NAME: RYOU KIMURA. AGE: 23, 6 MONTHS, 47 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 5.61 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: PERSOCOM DESIGNER/DOCTOR. HIGHLY RECOGNIZED; RESPECTED. CHANGE/ADD DATA?"
Without any thought to personal appearance, Bakura gawked at the girl—then at his smug looking cousin. ". . . What the hell—!"
"Isn't it ingenious?" the doctor whispered excitedly, straightening his lapel as Malik (in utter shock) slowly released him. "I've never seen this in action. . . but the result appears to be what we designers have always dreamed about! Though a kiss, the persocom is able to access DNA—and thus, data— on you, making her impossible for anyone to steal and hack into! She'd only respond to a new person with your permission or the password!"
Malik blinked slowly, exchanging a look with his friend which clearly said: "WHAT is going ON?"
The persocom, now standing before them in all her scantly bandaged glory, beeped a second time. "CHANGE/ADD DATA?"
Ryou waited a moment, staring from one man to the next, then sighed—giving up on any sort of response. "Yes," he stated firmly, addressing the machine. "Changing masters. New masters: Bakura Kimura and Malik Ishtar."
TR;ISH allowed her eyes to slide to a half lidded state. "REGISTERING NEW MASTER NAMES. CONNECTING TO THE INTERNET. . . PROCESSING. . . DATA FOUND. BAKURA KIMURA; AGE: 25, 5 MONTHS, 13 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 17.23 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: WORKS PART TIME AT DARK DUELS. STUDENT AT DOMINO UNIVERSITY. AVERAGE GRADE: C+. DELINQUIET; DETAINED BY THE POLIECE 4 TIMES FOR CRIMES SUCH AS SHOPLIFTING AND VANDILISM. LAST CAUGHT 7 YEARS, 11 MONTHS, 14 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 45 MINUTES, 23.04 SECONDS AGO. BEEN "CLEAN" SINCE."
Flushing in embarrassment and irritation at this sudden—and quite accurate—walk down memory lane, Kura opened his mouth to snap at the snickering Malik. . .
When the 'com relentlessly continued. But this time, in Bakura's favor.
". . . PROCESSING. . . DATA FOUND. MALIK ISHTAR; AGE: 24, 12 MONTHS, 2 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 46 MINUTES, 03 SECONDS. OCCUPATION: WORKS PART TIME AT JONOUCHI'S BOUTIQUE FOR MEN. STUDENT AT DOMINO UNIVERSITY. AVERAGE GRADE: F. INSOLENT— BEEN REPORTED BY TEACHERS TO BE RUDE AND UNHELPFUL. PREVIOUS GANG MEMBER; QUIT BEFORE A HOLD UP. MANAGED TO AVOID CHARGES BY TIPPING OFF THE POLIECE REGARDING THE OTHER'S WEREABOUTS AND PLANS."
By then, the blonde's laughter had become silence. Now, he was frowning—and looking a bit put out. "I'm not insolent. . . !"
Bakura snickered, arching an eyebrow. "You work at a boutique?"
"Shut up!"
The persocom made another strange sound, interrupting the petty fight. "MASTERS' VOICES COMMIT TO HARD DRIVE. UPLOAD PASSWORD NOW."
Both boys blinked blankly. "Password?"
"A code," Ryou clarified, crossing one leg over the other as he straightened in his chair, content to watch their stupidity from the corner. "It will allow you to access her brain and other inner workings if circumstance decrees it necessary. It will also insure that she will still be yours if someone shuts her down."
"But then, how are we able to use her?" Malik inquired, brow crinkling. "She didn't ask for a password when you kissed her. Hell—what was all that you were just saying about being 'unable to hack into her'. . . ? I think we just did!"
"Her memory chip must have been removed or damaged," the doctor shrugged. "I'm not too concerned about that; it's a normal practice for those who throw out their 'coms. Don't want the hobos learning intimate details of their personal life, I guess."
"I see. . ." Bakura turned slowly back to the computer-girl, who was still waiting patiently in a state of semi-consciousness. "Er. . . the password will be. . .—"
"—Make sure it's something unique—not information that's easy for a hacker to obtain, or something you say often," the older male's cousin hissed, remembering the things Kura used to use as internet log-in phrases.
". . . shit."
The robot didn't miss a beat: "PROCESSING. . . COMPLETE. PASSWORD: SHIT. CONFIRMED."
. . . uh oh.
"Whaaaaaat!" Malik fumed, glaring at Bakura's gaping face as the silver-haired student digested this new (and rather ironic) plot twist. "Good going, moron!"
"Oh, shut up. . ." the second mumbled, pink with embarrassment. 'Guess I'll have to chose a new-favorite swear. . .'
"NEW PROGRAMING COMPLETE," the persocom trailed on, oblivious. "REBOOT. . . RESTARTING NOW."
And with that, the girl fell silent—eyes closing as her body crumpled: hitting the floor with a light 'thump'.
X
"So. . ."
The boys simultaneously cleared their throats, looking down at the persocom who was lying noiselessly on Malik's futon. They had somehow managed to change her—unraveling her gauze with their eyes shut (though, as Bakura pointed out, why should they be so flustered? It wasn't like she was real. (Not that that knowledge kept HIM from blushing. . .)), pulling one of their old nightshirts over her head. It was too large for her in body: dangling pathetically off of her shoulders, swimming on her torso; but it didn't cover much past her thigh. Luckily, Bakura managed to find an article of women's underwear hiding under the couch. (No questions were asked.)
But now that that was all over, the two were at a loss. What would happen when she finished rebooting? She obviously had no memory of her former owner—or the fact that she'd even had a former owner—but apart from her memory, Ryou said she appeared fine. (It was hard for him to tell, though, considering she seemed to defy equipment.)
"Why do you think she was out there?" the blonde asked suddenly, looking up in curiosity. Bakura glared; he faltered— evidently put out by the look tossed in his direction. "Just trying to make conversation. . . "
After a long instant, his friend sighed. "I don't know," he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning lazily against the wall. "Maybe because she's not compatible with today's machinery? Ryou mentioned that she may have been a screwed up custom-build. She was out in the trash for a while, in any case. Remember—she mentioned something about being off for over half a year."
"Wonder why she wasn't taken to the dump," Malik mumbled, watching the 'com's chest rise and fall in imitation of breathing.
"Don't be thick," Kura grumbled. "The trash company is run by persocoms. They wouldn't toss out one of their own. Aren't they programmed like that or something?"
"I dunno," the Egyptian snorted. "I know as much as you when it comes to computers. That is to say, nothing." He was silenced by a well-deserved pillow in the face.
An odd sort of quiet blanketed the pair once more; two sets of eyes trained on the 'girl'. A million questions raced through their minds: Where is this girl—no, thing—from? Why was she REALLY in the trash? Why couldn't Ryou decode her? What now?
What now?
". . . She needs a name," Malik said unexpectedly, voice firm. He tuned out the groan and eye roll that followed this statement, instead choosing to scratch his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think? How about. . . Katylin? Trinity? Or Serenity?"
"How about no?" the older boy sneered. "And if you say Anzu, I'll have to kill you."
The blonde shuddered. "NOT funny."
". . ."
Cars honked outside the window; a bus pulled around the corner.
". . ."
A few more seconds passed.
". . ."
Bakura blew out his cheeks, eyes half-lidded in boredom. "How about Trish?"
Giving a start, the other shot his roommate a weird glance. "What? Why?"
The silver locked boy gestured vaguely towards her shoulder. "T R; I S H. It spells Trish. Maybe that's her name."
Malik made a strange noise in the back of his throat. "Uh, no, it's her brand. Your cousin said so!"
"No, he said that he'd never heard of a persocom with the acronym TR;ISH on its arm," Kura 'corrected' (though technically his friend had been right). "Besides, she looks like a Trish."
The Egyptian didn't respond for a moment, instead giving the computer a scrutinizing once-over. One or two indescribable expressions crossed his tanned face, then: ". . . okay," he agreed. "Trish it is."
And at that moment, Trish's eyes snapped open.
X
If looks could kill, Bakura and Malik would both be six feet under. The two shuddered in horror and surprise as the newly dubbed 'Trish' all but hissed—scooting as far as she possibly could away from the strangers. An awkward sort of hush blanketed the three like a fog; nervous fingers clenched whatever there was to be found near by.
However, after three long minutes of excruciating nothingness, the girl seemed to have managed to form a sentence. It must have been hard, judging by the look on her face. Perhaps her equipment had suffered more damage than Ryou had believed. . . ? "Who. . ." she started—slowly, unsure, voice cracking. Well, not so much cracking as sliding: from sounding like an android on 'Star Trek' to an elderly lady, then to a child of around six—before eventually finding and sticking to a unique tone: heavier, but with a distinct feminine quality to it. Like the music of the ancient worlds. . . melodic in a darker, sweeter sort of way. "Who are you. . . ?"
"Um. . ." Malik stammered for a moment, seemingly flustered. But he soon applied a brave (if not stupid) expression, declaring proudly: "Your new masters, Malik and Bakura!"
". . ."
Trish just stared at him.
"You might want to try that again," Bakura advised dryly, resting his chin in his hands. The Egyptian cast him an annoyed glare.
"Shut up! I don't see you helping any!"
The persocom made an angry face—cheeks puffed out, eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" she repeated huffily, a note of frustration leaking into her tone.
"I told you," the blonde snapped, now thoroughly put out. "I'm Malik. And this is Bakura. Didn't we go through this already during reprogramming? Our usernames and all of that s—" But before he could finish his thought, Bakura slapped a hand over his mouth. At first he released a loud yelp, as if about to protest. . . before remembering the ordeal with the password. Oops. That would have been a hassle. . . "er. . . all of that . . . stuff. . . yeaaaah. . ."
Trish blinked, nonplussed. How a computer could be confused was completely beyond the comprehension of the college pair, but they could think of no other word to adequately describe her expression. Following another moment seemingly spent on processing information, she opened her mouth and inquired:
"Who are you?"
Gloom set in.
"Oh, man. . . !" Malik moaned, head sinking into his fingers. "She really is broken! Now what?"
Bakura didn't respond, opting instead to watch his friend fall into a deep depression. But despite how hopeless the situation looked, he (surprisingly) slowly shook his head. "No, she's not," he interrupted quietly. "She's on, ain't she? She's moving, ain't she?"
—The two paused to watch the poor 'com try to get to her feet (and collapse in the process)—
"Well, then she's not broken," he concluded. "Her voice chip may just be on the fritz. We can still use her. . . I think."
". . . You really believe so?" the tanned boy murmured hopefully after a second or two of considering this.
"Sure," Bakura replied flippantly, though he really didn't know. Whatever kept his roommate from mopping the rest of the day. . . ugh. "And it may just be that she's a bit rusty. Give her a bit of time. I'm sure she'll be good at SOMETHING."
"?" Upon hearing this, Trish appeared to perk slightly—as if recognizing something in the statement. Noticing this, the silver-locked man smiled a bit, pointing in her general direction. "See? The machine wants to be useful t—!" But his words died on his tongue as the girl beamed—
Unabashedly pulling up her shirt.
"Who are you!" She happily chirped, pointing to the center of her chest, where her heart (had she been human) should be. Nodding once or twice, she paused—face screwing up in thought—before adding (in an oddly sultry whisper): "Wants to be useful."
'. . . Oh my God.'
Bakura and Malik, faces as red as fire engines, began to choke—reaching out and simultaneously yanking the persocom's shirt down. ('My pants were NOT this tight when I put them on this morning—!')
"Hmm?" Trish cocked her head, baffled by this unexpected behavior, but let it go with a small grin; she seemed to have forgotten her trepidation, her inner workings reminding her that these were her new masters. So instead of pressing any sort of subject, she began to fiddle with the buttons of her dark blue shirt, amused by their complexity. As she did this, the two friends exchanged dazed glances, unsure of how to react to what had just happened.
"What in hell's name was that!" Malik hissed, cheeks still the color of a beet. "Was she some sort of stripper in the past!"
"I doubt it," Bakura muttered, casting the 'girl' a strange look. "Those places would never throw out a 'com, even a malfunctioning one. They'd have too many secrets and porn movies on their hard drives. The owners could be charged or something."
"But Ryou said that Trish's hard drive was inaccessible."
"No, he said HE couldn't access it." Kura frowned. "And her main drive can't be broken, otherwise I don't think she'd be able to run at all. No, it must have just been erased. . . or re-written. Maybe damaged. Theoretically, it could probably be re-accessed."
". . ." The Egyptian simply stared at him for a few moments. "How on Earth did you learn all of this!" he asked, sounding a bit irritated. Now he was beginning to look like an idiot. . .
In response, his friend held up a book: Persocoms for Dummies. (Malik cursed under his breath. 'I KNEW I should have picked up a copy. . .')
"Well," Bakura sighed a moment later, stroking an imaginary beard; his brow crinkling in thought. Idly, he began to play with their stereo's remote, accidentally switching it on. ("click—ust in: another destroyed persocom found by the police. Media and masses are stunned and confused by this horrifying display; even more gruesome then the past fif—click.") "I'm not sure what we'll do for now. But at least she seems to be able to entertain herself."
"Eh?" Malik grunted, about to question this statement when—
"Ah!" Trish cried cheerfully, literally pouncing on her masters; beaming as she proudly showed off her new buttoning skills.
Outside, a frosty wind began to blow.