#datalaur

[clickityweasel]

commission for @datalaur of some downtime chill time complete with bothersome cat

[b----4archived]

🤝 request for a hand touch or familial touch. Perhaps Bruce's back of hand/knuckle stroke on baby!B-4's cheek? B is looking in a mirror for an extended period. When sought out, he asks why he doesn't look like Bruce or Geordi. Eventually the penny drops and Bruce realizes he means skin color. Perhaps they agree that Geordi's skin color looks delicious, like chocolate. But B is reassured in detail that his synthskin is pretty, soft, etc., plus it has many extra benefits over human skin.

// I am reminded of a conversation between Brent Spiner and Gene Roddenberry. When Spiner asked why Soong couldn’t figure out how to make more human-like skin, Roddenberry replied, "What makes you think what you have isn't better than skin?"

---

During his early stages of development, when sentience was vague and confusing, B-4 liked to watch. He liked to see people out the window and mimic their movements. He was enamoured by gadgets and the intricacies that allowed them to function. He was taken by holos and photos and most apparent was his interest in his reflection. First, he would sit for a long time, looking into a dark panel in the cybernetics lab, and muse to himself, “Data.” 

“No, B-4. That is you. A reflection. An image. Like a holo.” Bruce Maddox tapped on the dark glass. “Not Data,” he said. “Move your arm and see how the reflection does the same. Go ahead.” B-4 raised his hand slowly and saw the image in the panel did the same. He continued this for an hour or more. 

B-4 was gifted a small mirror. In the afternoons he would sit in the lab and stare into it thoughtfully. One day, Bruce entered with a basket of wires and parts which he plopped down on the table. “B-4, are you ready for another test?” he asked, yet he received no response. “B?”

B-4 looked up from the mirror at Bruce, then back down. He looked back and forth several times: once to his face, then to his hands, then he frowned. “I do not look like you,” he said slowly as if coming to a realization that was difficult to understand. 

Bruce crossed the room to perch himself on the edge of the desk across from the android. “No,” he said. “You don’t.” 

“You are...pink.” 

Bruce wasn’t sure what to make of this, but B-4 didn’t elaborate. He simply went back to his mirror. 

“I don’t understand,” Bruce said finally in an attempt to coax him into clarifying. Nothing. Maybe he would go back to the earlier comment. “We have different hair,” he said pointing to B’s head. “You have brown. Mine is black.” B-4 said nothing. “Your eyes are gold. Mine are brown.” Still nothing. “B-4, what is it?” 

After a beat, B turned an outstretched his hand, taking Bruce’s and holding it up between them. “Pink,” he said insistently. “Geordie is brown. Data is gold. You are pink.” 

Bruce’s mouth opened in dawning realizing. “Oh...you mean skin?” He squeezed the android’s hand lightly. “Different people have different colour skin, B-4. That’s the way people are.”

B-4 looked at their hands pressed together. “Humans are not gold,” he said. “Humans are better.” 

Bruce often wondered where he got the notions about humans being the pinnacle of perfection. Perhaps it was a misinterpretation of thoughts Data had experienced in his quest to become more human-like. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. Not at all. Look.” He stood up now to move closer. “Look at your hands.”

B-4 looked at both of his hands. 

“What is that covering your body?”

The reply came automatically. “1.3 kilograms of Bioplast sheeting.”

Bruce nodded. “What’s covering mine?”

B-4 looked perplexed for a moment. “Skin?”

“Right. Different material, right? So we will look different. But both are good. Different people look different. Dr. Sachdev, in the bio lab, what colour is her skin?”

B-4 thought for a moment. “Brown. Light-brown.” 

“Is Dr. Sachdev a good doctor?” 

“Yes.”

“Is Dr. Sachdev beautiful?”

B-4 thought about this. His answer was slow but no less certain. “...Yes.” 

“What about Geordie?”

B-4 smiled slightly. “Geordie is good.”

“Am I?”

“You are good,” B-4 decided. 

Bruce nodded. “So are you. What makes you think what you have isn't better than skin?” The android looked down at his hands again. Without waiting for an answer. Bruce moved forward and took both hands in his. “Your bioplast is stronger. It is smoother. It has no imperfections. Some humans would be envious.”

“Envious,” B-4 repeated. 

“You should be proud of what you are, B-4.”

[b----4archived]

Or perhaps a memory of a time B felt safe and relaxed 🎈please

“Why do you insist upon archaic forms of musical recordings? You know you could probably get this from the ship’s computer?” 

B-4 sat on the edge of his bed watching the record spin. Most people aboard would not know what a turntable was let alone how to use one. This did nothing to quell his fascination with the machine.

“Sentimental value, I guess.” The record player had been a gift from his brother who had received it as a gift himself. The replicator had easily made several records, all of which Data had shared with him. 

Before Data’s revival, he and Bruce had listened to ancient music. He had called it ‘jazz’. He said it had only ever been fleeting in its popularity - thriving in the mid-twentieth century and existing as a stepping stone in the evolution of music. B-4 swore that the frequency of which they listened to the albums engrained some permanence in his memory engrams. He often found those songs ‘stuck in his head’.

They had listened to music often when he was first activated. Data thought learning to spin records would help with motor skills early on. He remembered taking great care in lifting the arm, making sure the needle didn’t drop onto the record in a way that was damaging. Frank Sinatra, Perry Como...these were the names he associated with his ‘childhood’. Family. Home. 

“You like ancient Earth music,” he reminded his roommate. 

Morag scoffed. “Yea, like The Beatles,” she said. “The Rolling Stones. The Who. Nae this insanity.” She gestured wildly to the turntable and shook her head. “Yeh even look at the thing the wrong way and it’s broken.”

“That’s why you aren’t allowed near it when it’s running,” B reminded her. The music crooned from the speakers with a crackle that drove Morag up a wall but that B-4 adored for reasons unclear to him. It added value to the audio that he could only attribute to emotional attachment. ‘Haven't felt like this, my dear, since I can't remember when. It's been a long, long time.’ 

He couldn’t sing like Data. The familiarity of his brother’s voice had always served to dampen the effects of his emotion chip enough to focus and reset when he felt overwhelmed. He did hum to himself on occasion, or sing poorly under his breath when he was working on a menial task. 

“I’m leaving,” Morag said as the door to their quarters swung open. 

“Alright,” B answered too late to an empty room. 

The song changed and B-4 leaned back until he was flat on the bed, feet on the floor, face toward the ceiling. He closed his eyes and attempted to shut down all simultaneous functions until all that was left running were his auditory processors. Bing Crosby’s voice filled his head and subsequently memories of The Daystrom Insititute followed. It was amazing to him that music could bring about such a peaceful place of comfort - even for a biological lifeform. A slight smile crept up onto his face. He continued replaying the song in his head long after the record came to a crackling stop. 

[b----4archived]

🏡 A memory about a location, please

“Why do we dream?” 

The question sounded vaguely sentimental - like a child musing about the workings of the universe. B-4 had not meant for it to come off that way. He was genuinely curious as to the point of coding dreams into their secondary functions. To him, the act seemed superfluous. Meaningless. 

Data had deliberately given him the ability to dream. It seemed a waste of time - after all, B-4 did not require sleep - yet he shut down his cognitive functions each evening in order to experience simulated rest. It did not make sense. 

Data seemed as if he had been expecting this very question. “It was our father’s intention,” he explained. “For me to develop my cognitive abilities to the point where I could experience the undefined nature of dreams and interpret them creatively. I thought it appropriate to give you the same ability.”

“I don’t understand what purpose it serves.”

Data took a moment to consider this. “Similar to organic beings, our dreams are our core processor’s way of organizing, filtering, and clarifying the information we experience when we are in a fully conscious state. It is likely that your dreams will help you to better understand your daily experiences.” 

That made sense actually. It could be helpful, he supposed, for him to reevaluate all information collected during the day. One thing continued to bother him. “What if I have dreams about a place I have never been?”

Data cocked his head to the side. His expression was profoundly puzzled. “That is not possible,” he said. “You will only experience people and places that are familiar to you. For example - the situations in my dreams are unfamiliar, however they include people and imagery I am familiar with: a bird, Dr. Soong, the Enterprise, deceased musicians, extinct anim-”

“I have seen a ship,” B-4 interrupted. “I’ve never been on it before.” 

This was even further perplexing. Data thought for a moment, and then said quietly, “Please describe the ship.” 

B-4 had no problem recalling his dreams. Like every waking memory he had, dreams were stored as video files in his memory engrams and easily recalled. He played the dream back before his eyes, emitting a ‘thousand-yard stare’. “It is dark,” he started. “Vertical lines of dim lights are installed in the ship’s internal structure. The walls and floors are black. There is a green glow emanating from an unknown source.” 

“Are there people on the ship?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who?”

B-4 didn’t speak for several seconds. He seemed to be struggling with an answer before deciding on, “I do not know them.” 

Data stood up now and moved across the room to his brother. “This is highly concerning, B-4,” he said as he went to stand behind his brother. Gentle fingers moved to brush hair away from an external port on the side of his head. “Perhaps you should run a neural diagnostic. It seems images are being transmitted-”

“Praetor.”

Data ceased his movements. “‘Praetor’ is the term for the head Romulan political and military administrator. Do you hear this in your dream?” His brother made a thoughtful humming sound. Since B-4 had never met a Romulan before, dreaming about one would be impossible. His description of the ship was not in line with what they had seen on Romulan ships prior.

Data recalled the last time he had heard the term ‘praetor’ in context. In the past year, they had interacted with the Romulan council to discuss terms of treaty. Prior to this, the term was used in conversation with senior staff in four meetings since his return to the Enterprise. As things stood, relationships with Romulus were cordial. There was no indication that they would attempt to interfere with B-4. Data wondered if they even knew B-4 existed.

Except they did. Of course they did. 

“B,” he said quietly. “I believe you are recalling memories from...before.”

When B-4 turned to face Data, he was already shaking his head. “I have never been on that ship,” he repeated. 

“Correct. Physically, you have never been on that ship. However, I have. You are recalling memories of the Reman warship that faced the Enterprise in 2379.” 

Both of them stood in silence then. No doubt Data was waiting for a response. B-4 didn’t have one to give. 

The events that occurred with Shinzon seemed too far away in his memory. He knew the details, he had read every Starfleet file over and over, but all memories from before the transfer took place were distorted. His positronic matrix had just been too primitive to fully understand what was happening at that time. 

“Oh.” He had never been able to recall his time on the ship before now. Never remembered the name ‘Shinzon’. Never recalled being taken apart, manipulated. He barely recalled his time on the Enterprise before Data’s death. He had no desire to remember any of it. That was a different person. One who caused the death of his brother and nearly destroyed everyone he considered family. 

B-4 looked at Data and bit his lower lip to keep from showing his upset. He squeezed his hands into tight fists. “I do not wish to remember that,” he said with a shaky voice. 

Data nodded. “Perhaps we should suspend the dream programming for a night or two. However, it may be important for you to explore in the future. Perhaps you should have a conversation with the counselor.” 

B-4 didn’t respond. He trained his eyes to the floor. After a moment of silence, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “It is because of you that I am here now. Shinzon would have found a way to complete his goal with or without you. Do not blame yourself.” Data squeezed slightly - a motion B-4 knew was automatic and calculated. 

Do not blame yourself. Easy to say when you couldn’t feel regret. “Okay, Data. I won’t.” 

[b----4archived]

If you feel like writing more, maybe B asks why people do not touch his skin like he sees other people touch. Bruce realizes B would like physical affection so that he and his staff will have to make an effort to appropriately provide that.

Bruce noticed a stark difference between B-4 and Data. While Data seemed to pay no mind to the things that were not necessary, B seemed fascinated by anything frivolous. Data’s personal logs had mentioned his need to justify certain behavioral changes in order to adapt them. Manners. Common vernacular. Even clothing, at first. Just the opposite, B-4 craved to be included in what everyone else was doing. This was perplexing - nothing Bruce had added to his coding would influence that - but it persisted on a daily basis. 

B-4 spent a lot of his time observing. He had many questions, which was to be expected, and he had no problem following Bruce around and blurting them out. “Why do people chirp?” Many of his questions were like this - the wrong words for the wrong situation. “Like this-” He pulled his lips tight against his teeth, opened his mouth, and barked out a harsh, high-pitched sound.

“That’s laughing, B,” Bruce explained. “Humans do that involuntarily when they consider something amusing.” 

Questions like this resounded day after day. Often, he would ask why he was unable to do the things he was witnessing. Bruce would tell him he still had to learn or that is just wasn’t something androids did.

“You don’t need to drink liquid, B-4.

“You don’t have to use the bathroom like humans do.

“Your hair doesn’t grow, so you won’t ever need a haircut.

“You don’t get cold, so you don’t need a coat, B.”

One day while they were sat together on a bench out front of the Institute, B-4 pointed at a couple walking by. Bruce didn’t notice at first. His nose was two inches from a PADD that he was scrolling through furiously. “They are touching,” B said. 

“Mhm.” Bruce didn’t look up from his files.

B-4 observed them for a moment longer, then he turned and gently ran a finger down Bruce’s face. This was enough to pull him from his work and look at the android who stared at him with wide yellow eyes. 

“I have observed people touching,” B-4 explained. “They touch hands. They touch mouths. Why?”

Bruce put the PADD down on the bench beside him and sighed. “People touch because it feels good,” he said as he waved a hand. “It makes people feel happy. Comfortable. Safe. Depending on where you touch, the touch itself can feel nice. It means they are close.”

B-4 cocked his head to the side. “Close?” 

“Emotionally, not in proximity. They are familiar. Intimate.”

“Intimate?”

“Their neural pathways are familiar with one another’s sensory input patterns.”

“Oh.”

Bruce watched the couple as they walked away from the bench. Two young ladies holding hands and laughing. B-4’s gaze followed and he observed in silence. One of the women pulled the other closer around the waist. Under his breath, B-4 tried out a laugh but shook his head when it sounded all wrong.

He turned to Bruce suddenly. “My mental pathways have become accustomed to your sensory input,” he said. He turned his hand over so his palm was facing up between them. “Please touch.” 

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh. He put his hand over B-4’s and held it tightly. “Okay, how’s that?” he asked. 

B-4 nodded. “I will anticipate this sensation.” 

“Anticipate?” 

B-4 thought about it for a moment and nodded again. “I will anticipate this input. Touch.”

 “You mean you like it? It makes you feel better?” 

“Yes.” 

Bruce smiled. “You want to be like those other people? You want to touch more?”

“Yes.”

He removed his hand and placed it gently on B’s head. Then he wrapped an arm around the android’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. “This is a hug,” he said. “Would you like more hugs?” B-4 nodded. Fascinating, he thought. It would seem B-4 was developing more complex neural pathways. He was progressing much faster than they had ever imagined he would. “Then we’ll have to do that.”

[b----4archived]

💚 please (Maybe a familial comfort kiss for an upset B-4 after he is sent to Bruce Maddox / Daystrom?)

He had been doing so well. 

He sniffled - a programmed response as shuttered breath and tears were - and teetered slightly in his chair. Working was easy. Studying came naturally now that they had worked on his positronic matrix. He found comfort in reading Starfleet manuals, Engineering textbooks, medical journals...people were hard. Interactions were difficult. Words could be memorized. People were random. Hurtful. Confusing.  “They...sent me away,” he said for the fifth time. Fingers gripped the underside of the chair seat leaving dents in the metal. Emotions were so new. So overwhelming. Over the last few weeks, confusion had given way to sadness, anger, hurt. He forgot things, remembered them in the wrong order. Suddenly felt sad, but didn’t know why. He would be perfectly content one moment, and the next it all came back.  “It’s just to make sure you are running okay, B,” Agnes assured him. “You will be better off here.” She squatted on the floor beside him, hand around his shoulder to support both of them. Her expression was sympathetic, but she looked up at her partner, eyes asking for assistance without saying as much. Bruce stood a few feet away, arms crossed in front of him, watching. They had this conversation several times before. Like clockwork, B-4 seemed to remember the circumstances of his arrival every few days. Every time he made social progress. Every time his emotion chip was updated. Every time they mentioned Data. This time was worse. “I...betrayed them?” he said in stilted words. “Data...Data said...” He remembered the modifications. He remembered carrying out his orders. He remembered Data’s face when he told him he must be deactivated. Indefinitely. “Wh...where is Geordie?” He looked around vaguely as if confused as to where he was. “Picard?”  Tears began streaming down his face. He bit his lower lip to try and control the emotions he had no understanding of. His head twitched. His neural processors were overloading.  “B-4.” Bruce said his name softly as he moved forward to comfort him. “Remember what we said. You did nothing wrong.” He stroked B-4′s hair soothingly. “We strive to improve. Agnes and I will help you here.” He knelt on the other side of the chair and tucked a finger under B-4′s chin. The android sniffled as Bruce pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You are safe. This will pass.” B-4 squeezed his eyes shut, groaning in frustration. His head twitched to the side again. A piece of the chair gave way in his hand. Agnes jumped slightly, looking to Bruce for guidance.

Maddox sighed as he slid his hand to B-4′s back under the guise of comfort. He pressed his forehead to B-4′s shoulder and quickly flipped his activation switch. B-4 slumped over in his chair, silent and lifeless. “We’ll have to make adjustments to the chip,” he said softly as he looked at the android in the chair. “I’m sorry, B.”  

[b----4archived]

*

Perhaps it was a usual custom to offer a kiss on the cheek in this manner? B-4 was not used to any other person’s lips anywhere on his person. If he could blush, he thought this would be the occasion. “I...uh...thank you,” he stuttered. Words were safer than attempting to return the kiss. He tucked his arms safely behind his back in case they landed anywhere untoward. Embarrassment was an emotion he felt somewhat often, but the sort of embarrassment that accompanied this sort of intimacy was unfamiliar. He tucked it away in the back of his brain so he could inquire about it at a later time. 

[sophorius]

LOL lauren I totally forgot that I need to change my blog back to "Untitled"

:| It's been more than a week...