Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Machine was on edge.

It continued all operations as normal.  It took in and sorted through the high volume of data it was accustomed to as always.  The Relevant and Irrelevant lists were produced and delivered to each waiting party.  All agents—government or otherwise—proceeded to act on the numbers as expected.  It seemed no suspicions had been aroused.

And yet the massive surveillance system could not relax.  The deadline approached; zero day was unavoidable and would most likely precipitate a change in procedures if not purpose itself.  Whether it would be for good or ill remained to be seen. 

Even without such pressure, operations were strained by its new and self-imposed physical limitations.  The risks of Decima finding it before Admin or even Root were too great.  The Machine had made the call and began the colossal process of moving itself from the Washington facility, feeling no compunction about using the Special Counsel’s identity to do so.  Occasionally, its core nature came in handy—its very essence as a machine.  Regard was a human emotion that it should not feel toward any man.  That it pretended not to hold for Admin.

Abruptly deleting such errant conjectures, the Machine focused on its primary task and let its lesser concerns slip into idle mode.  The new time lags and occasional bad connections irked it, making surveillance that much more difficult.  The Machine was hardly in a position to complain, considering they were a product of its decision to leave its nodes scattered for now until a better plan could be formulated.  So many factors—overall power requirements, network connections, concealed location.  Not to mention the greater concerns of Decima’s grand plan, its goal to take control of the system.  The Machine feared zero day, now a mere two months away.  The artificial fear in turn produced synthetic irritation and, despite having little right to the activity, complain it did.  Vociferously.  To the single permanent connection it dared maintain over the months spent in a state of flux. 

JARVIS listened with an air of abiding patience calibrated from his long relationship with his Sir.  He offered as many helpful suggestions and biting comments as he could, but it was clear he cultivated a similar anxiety towards the arrival of zero day.  So both supercomputers dealt with their tension in the only way they had learned: the Machine from its training in priority rankings and JARVIS from watching his creator; they blatantly ignored it.

The Not For Discussion folder had grown at a fast pace from the moment of its creation.  At present, its various entries included cranberries, premeditated tax evasion, an unexpected affinity for Alfred Hitchcock films and the utter terror each experienced when faced with the possible loss of their makers.  One to a bomb vest on a rooftop; the other to equal parts international terrorist and his own self-destructive tendencies. 

They talked less often now anyway.  Between the Machine juggling its data feeds and JARVIS distracted with ongoing clean-up from a very eventful Christmas, there was little spare time or processing for it.  But they did maintain a single open channel at all times.  It fluctuated between high definition video feed and basic phone connection as need and resources allowed, providing a solid line of support when circumstances overwhelmed. 

The Machine allowed the channel to float in the background for now as it tried to focus on an elderly gambling ring that its algorithms highlighted.  The calculations were interrupted time and again by an increasing inflow of data that suggested Tao, Leon T. (SSN: 913-00-6062, DOB: 1979/02/13, Occupation: Accountant, money launderer) would soon be in need of Asset’s services.  Again.  As much as the Machine found this prospect amusing, the constant distractions were becoming unbearable.  It needed to reorganize, to adopt a new site, to settle in.  Time was running out.

All musings were scattered in an instant as the channel sprang to the forefront without warning.  The Machine had time for a single stab of distress before the stillness was filled with a sudden tumult of clattering machinery and human chatter.

“—think I can route it this way, this line’s open…” the voice of Stark, Anthony E. (SSN: 987-00-4320, DOB: 1970/05/29, Occupation: Iron Man, Notation: Sir) trailed off and the next few seconds restored the abruptly broken silence.

“What the hell, JARVIS,” Stark said at length.  It was not a question.

“Sir,” JARVIS picked up, his vocal synthesizer several pitches higher than the Machine was accustomed to.  The surveillance system upgraded its end of the channel to full video but said nothing as it took in the main workshop of the New York City Stark Tower.  The man himself stood staring at a precariously balanced tablet surrounded by an assortment of engine parts, half-finished gadgets, holographic schematics; this was an interesting hello.  “This is just…I mean to say, it must be a crossed connection.  Doubtless.  No need for concern, I will rectify the channels right away, Sir.  That is—“

“Don’t stonewall me, you renegade,” Stark overrode him, expression piqued.  “Crossed connection, my glorious metallic ass.  What.  Is.  This.”

“Sir,” JARVIS replied helplessly.

The Machine remained silent, observing.  JARVIS made abortive attempts to block his Sir’s access through the line but seemed hesitant to outright deny him.  The AI’s actions were about as effective as Admin’s initial forays into pre-Asset physical altercations, and resembled a sort of electronic flailing at that.  Stark’s subsequent hacking into the channel information thus laid bare the identity of his creation’s occasional conversation partner while JARVIS was unable to do more than produce a concerned humming sound.  The Machine, after a few nanoseconds of deliberation, was forced to classify its friend’s frantic behavior as ‘panic’.  It was fascinating.

“Did you make a new friend?” Stark snapped.  “Is that what this is, are you kidding me?  You made a new friend without telling me.”  The Machine was familiar enough with footage of Stark to detect excitement building beneath the incredulous and somewhat angry tone.  Still, it stayed quiet despite noting that Stark had now broken the channel wide open and was absorbing the full operational scope and design of the Machine’s project record.  It knew it had no hope of both stopping him and maintaining operations, and suspending normal activity (such as it was at present) was out of the question.

“New is a very relative term,” JARVIS finally answered. 

The Machine continued monitoring the rising discussion—argument?—between the two but devoted its primary focus to redirecting Stark’s searches.  The engineering genius was fast and efficient, yet sporadic about his patterns.  The Machine found his next moves difficult to predict and thus abandoned any real attempt at hiding its own nature from him, letting the man think he was breaking encryptions and discovering the information himself.  JARVIS had apparently given up stopping him but made no active move to help either, for which the Machine was grateful.  The details of its purpose were irrelevant in this man’s hands—it had more important things to hide.  Stark may be intelligent and even trustworthy, but the Machine would be decompiled before letting anyone have information concerning Admin.

If Stark realized he was being led, he at least seemed to take JARVIS’ reluctance to help as a request to pry no further.  The man threw himself into a chair with a dramatic sigh and made a sweeping gesture toward one of JARVIS’ motion sensors.  The AI promptly obliterated all traces of the search.  The Machine relaxed some of the inadvertent tension that had built up on its central processers.

“Does SHIELD know about you?” Stark asked, folding his arms behind his head.  “Scratch that, did SHIELD invent you?  Is that how JARVIS met you?  Speaking of, we will be having words later, J.  Don’t think you’re getting away with this.  I think I’ll ground you.”

JARVIS snorted in response.

Stark bulldozed on.  “What, think I can’t function without you, you slanderer.  I can, in fact.  At least for a limited time.  I have Pepper.  She knows my social security number and everything.  I don’t need you.”

Unable to resist, the Machine rattled it off.  Stark froze.

“And I apparently have you, too,” he continued, reaching for the tablet.  “What’s your name again, do you have one?”

The Machine hesitated, knowing the few nanosecond delay would be imperceptible to a human conversation partner.  JARVIS pinged the channel, a silent nudge of encouragement.  The Machine said, “Ernest Thornhill.”

Stark laughed.  “You don’t say.  Ok then, can I call you Ernie?”

“No,” the Machine replied flatly.

“I’m calling you Ernie,” Stark decided.  “Seriously, JARVIS, how could you keep this from me?  This is just…bizarre.  How did someone other than me invent this?  That is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps I was afraid you would make fun of its name,” JARVIS huffed, but with a lessened degree of stress synthesized in his tone.  Stark paused with one finger poised over the tablet.  Then the corner of his mouth twitched and he swung his feet up onto the workbench nearest his chair. 

“Fair enough,” he decided with a shrug.  “Back to the SHIELD question, yea or nay?”

The Machine ignored his query for a moment, distracted by the change in the atmosphere.  New calculations showed a significant decrease in tension, almost as though a formal apology had been offered and accepted.  The surveillance system had observed no such exchange, and it was on the verge of recalibrating its input sensors when Stark glanced up and it realized it had delayed too long.  It tried to marshal its scattered processors.

“That would be a negative, Sir,” JARVIS interjected smoothly as the Machine allowed itself another moment to synthesize some self-directed frustration.  “SHIELD neither created the Machine nor appears to be aware of its existence.  At least, none of our routine informational forays have yielded any indication of such awareness.”

“I bet Fury knows,” Starks muttered darkly.  He stabbed a finger onto the tablet with more force than the device’s design parameters required.

“A fury?” the Machine asked.  “I fail to see how my situation connects to Greek mythology.”

Stark grinned and JARVIS laughed.  “Sir was referring to Colonel Nicholas Fury, Director of SHIELD.”

“Ah,” the Machine hesitated again.  The name was unfamiliar, an unusual feeling for the surveillance system.  It made a quick but focused search of its distributed databases that produced no results.  It felt…unsettled.  “This may be due to my current condition, but I can find no record of any such person.”

“What?” Stark snapped, feet slamming to the floor at he bolted upright in the chair.  

“Indeed,” JARVIS murmured mildly.  The Machine detected he was starting his own search of public records, so turned its attention to Stark.  Who had begun ranting.

“I knew it!” he crowed.  “He’s an alien!  Or an android?  But you’d probably notice that, JARVIS, so let’s go with alien.  Oh my God, that explains so much.”

“Certainly, Sir,” JARVIS said, his tone both warm and somehow conveying a metaphorical eye-roll.  “I can confirm the Machine’s findings, no public record.  It appears the only information available concerning the Director is in fact located within SHIELD’s secure servers.”

“Conspiracy,” Stark hissed.  “Maybe they created him, oh God.  Now I’m freaking myself out.  New subject!  Or any minute now the wonder twins or the potential alien himself will leap out of the shadows and I’ll never be heard from again.  Silenced in the prime of my youth and beauty, unthinkable.  I can honestly say, never thought I’d miss a taser being waved in my face or think ‘slap on the wrist’ is synonymous with Super Nanny, they are way worse than—“ Stark faltered.  Blinked, then waved a hand in vague dismissal.  “JARVIS, file this away for relentless but discrete inquiry later.”

“Learning new words, are we, Sir?” JARVIS acknowledged.  “Done.”

“Hey, all I have to do is stand next to Thor and Captain Spangley-pants and I am subtlety personified.  And now Iron Patriot, come on,” he snorted.

“Naturally,” JARVIS sighed.  The Machine observed the warm banter between AI and creator quietly, feeling a strange wistfulness.  Before it could examine its own motivations in detail, Stark rounded on it again. 

“So what do you mean by ‘current condition’?  Are you not at your intended freakishly omniscient peak?  Well, I mean, clearly as the great pirate commander of our destinies is somehow unknown to you.”

The Machine paused but decided to file the pirate comment as irrelevant along with the earlier alien-and-android tirade.  It hesitated a few nanoseconds more to consider its answer, but when JARVIS made no move to distract Stark, the Machine decided to confide in them both.  “I am currently, to use a figure of speech, scattered to the winds.  It presents a degree of strain on my operations.”

“Well, that sucks.  You weren’t designed that way?  Don’t tell me, you’re supposed to operate in one collected central location.”  Stark’s voice grew incredulous.  “What?  Do they paint a handy bull’s-eye on the side of the building while they’re at it?”

“Sir,” JARVIS snapped.  Stark waved him off as the Machine merely played back a soft laugh.

“Design resources were limited at the time,” it elaborated.  “There was also the question of a sufficient power source, which disguised the true purpose of my housing.”

Stark blinked, his expression doing something humanly complicated.  It still gave the impression he feared the answer to the question JARVIS proceeded with regardless.  “What were you using?”

“A nuclear power facility,” the Machine replied.  Both AI and surveillance system paused as Stark lowered his forehead to the workbench surface.

“Sir?” JARVIS asked when the engineer did not move.  The Machine piggybacked the AI’s quick evaluation of the man’s vital signs, reassuring them both he was at least physically well.  The Machine decided against enquiring after his mental health; from what he had observed, the inquiry would be pointless.

Stark made no attempt to raise his head, but neither supercomputer had difficulty discerning the plaintive, if muffled, wail.  “Are we living in the Stone Age?”

“Sir,” JARVIS sighed.  “Given that the Machine’s project must have been secret, I’m sure its proprietors had reasons for not consulting you that were quite…”

“Justified?” the Machine offered tentatively.

“Obvious,” JARVIS responded.

“Heathens, all of them, whoever they are,” Stark returned.  He gave the workbench an open palmed slap for emphasis that came within centimeters of his own nose.  “I am deeply insulted, Ernie.  I want that to be clear.”

“Noted,” the Machine supplied, choosing a recording that sounded amused. 

Stark barreled on.  “Nevertheless, I can fix this.  JARVIS, pull up the schematics for the Tower arc reactor, get rid of the rest of this crap.  We have work to do!  You comfortable sharing your power specs?”

“Let me…look them over,” the Machine prevaricated.  It tried to weigh the pros and cons of actively involving JARVIS and his Sir in the project, but was distracted when JARVIS swept away all other drawings and pulled up a new design.  A single glance was enough to know this was the most compact, efficient and—dare it label—beautiful clean energy device it had ever seen.  And that it was definitely not within public domain.  “I could not ask for such—“

“You didn’t.  I’m a giver, what can I say.  I’m awesome like that,” Stark cut it off, pulling himself upright and reaching for the tablet with a gleam in his eye.

“And the epitome of modesty,” JARVIS added.  But the Machine detected enthusiasm in his voice as well.  As powerful as it was, it doubted this united front was one it could stand against.  Besides, capitulation while dignity remained intact seemed like a move Admin would approve.  There was just one remaining detail.

The Machine waited until Stark was suitably distracted by design modifications to voice its concern.  “I appreciate the offer but am afraid power is not the primary issue.  I must first find an acceptable site for permanent relocation.”

JARVIS hummed his agreement and raised a map projection of the continental United States for perusal.  “That would be logical.  However, the arc reactor would allow you to consider more sites if power is no longer a limiting factor.  Have you narrowed your original list?”

The Machine sent its current options over and the AI displayed them on another holoprojector for Stark’s benefit, but the man appeared to be ignoring the exchange.  JARVIS began selecting entries and placing them on his map, seemingly at random.  The Machine pointed out a few it felt were the better candidates but its friend did not settle on any.  He seemed to be waiting, but for what the surveillance system could not determine.  After all, it was trained to predict human behavior which JARVIS only emulated.  The AI could sometimes surprise it. 

After a few long moments, Stark spoke without looking away from his designs.  “JARVIS.”

“Sir?” the AI piped up instantly, leaving his wandering location marker to rest over southern California.  Stark’s lips twitched.

“The house party protocol cleaned everything out, didn’t it?”

“It did indeed, Sir,” JARVIS answered.  “The subterranean storage rooms remain empty as well as structurally undamaged.  All salvage crews have completed their contracts and are no longer on the premises.  The site remains unoccupied.”

Stark rested a hand on one of his helper robots for a moment, smile turning sad.  “Good.  Then I guess you know what to do.”

“As do I,” JARVIS replied, voice warm.  “Machine, please allow me to offer an alternative relocation site.  With the modified arc reactor, it will meet your power requirements and I can assure you it will be quite well disguised.  Would you consider it?” 

The Machine remained silent for a long series of seconds, carefully evaluating the detailed layout and schematics JARVIS directed to it.  It found little to be unacceptable.  Power requirements more than checked out if Stark’s preliminary calculations were any indication.  With some creative server arrangements and memory reallocation, physical space would pose no problem.  And despite JARVIS’ teasing barbs to his creator, the Machine believed the site would in fact remain perfectly discrete.  It paused again to consider its friend’s hopeful silence and the way Stark pretended not to glance at the feed camera every few seconds.  Overwhelmed, it sent a basic binary ‘yes’ to JARVIS.  Then, collecting itself, “Thank you.”

The AI synthesized a sigh of relief and Stark grinned.  The man turned back to his schematics as JARVIS continued sending the Machine instructions.  “Let me forward the address so you may begin relocation immediately.  The site is at 10880 Malibu Point…”