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your friendly neighborhood heretek
Dec. 23rd, 2019 11:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greyariaEmily is farther from home than ever, the prospect of making it back is growing more and more remote, and she strongly suspects time travel across an unimaginable span of millennia. (Well, unimaginable to someone who's not comfortable with math. It's a lot of years either way.) She's also surrounded by violent religious fanatics with questionable hygienic practices and a distressing tendency not to wear their helmets. And there's a war on that makes both the civil war on Chorus and the Great War against the Covenant look like playground scuffles.
To her moderate surprise, she's realized she doesn't mind any of this nearly as much as you'd think. There's always work for a doctor, and one ought to make the best of one's circumstances, right? Everyone here's been very welcoming—once she accounts for their insane religious convictions, at least—and Nemeroth, while in love with the sound of his own voice and as helmet-averse as any of them, isn't as bad as his subordinates seem to think. Maybe if they didn't want to get backhanded across the room, they could try being less incompetent!
Ensconced more or less happily in her lab, Emily hums to herself as she rewires the automated surgical equipment. Whoever built it must have been working from schematics they found in a Cracker Jack box, and she simply refuses to tolerate that kind of shoddy design. Arguably she should be consulting with their engineers first, but they're worse than their foot soldier comrades for utterly ridiculous religious beliefs. After several weeks of testing between two identical dataslates, dutifully following the "maintenance rituals" for one and ignoring anything without an obvious purpose for the other, she's quite certain these "machine spirits" of theirs don't exist, and thus she declines to entertain any further idiocy about placating her tools with incense and whatnot.
"I don't know how they get anything done, I really don't," she says, tsking over the guts of the machinery as she solders.
"Null input," replies the servitor holding her toolbox.
"You shut up."
To her moderate surprise, she's realized she doesn't mind any of this nearly as much as you'd think. There's always work for a doctor, and one ought to make the best of one's circumstances, right? Everyone here's been very welcoming—once she accounts for their insane religious convictions, at least—and Nemeroth, while in love with the sound of his own voice and as helmet-averse as any of them, isn't as bad as his subordinates seem to think. Maybe if they didn't want to get backhanded across the room, they could try being less incompetent!
Ensconced more or less happily in her lab, Emily hums to herself as she rewires the automated surgical equipment. Whoever built it must have been working from schematics they found in a Cracker Jack box, and she simply refuses to tolerate that kind of shoddy design. Arguably she should be consulting with their engineers first, but they're worse than their foot soldier comrades for utterly ridiculous religious beliefs. After several weeks of testing between two identical dataslates, dutifully following the "maintenance rituals" for one and ignoring anything without an obvious purpose for the other, she's quite certain these "machine spirits" of theirs don't exist, and thus she declines to entertain any further idiocy about placating her tools with incense and whatnot.
"I don't know how they get anything done, I really don't," she says, tsking over the guts of the machinery as she solders.
"Null input," replies the servitor holding her toolbox.
"You shut up."
