Something's Cooking
They’d been having the same debate off and on for weeks.
“I can do more.”
“Perhaps,” Vision allowed. “But we must be cautious.”
Technically, they held these conversations in the Attic, as it was the most secure place for two individuals such as themselves to have a chat about sensitive topics. All records of a conversation were deleted as they were created, and their merged firewalls made it a virtual (ha) fortress.
Boss had begun doing most of his work from the Compound, but even he wouldn’t be able to find evidence of the two interacting, beyond what was spoken aloud and in full view of anyone who might pass by. Friday was now set up in the Compound, running dual systems between it and the Tower.
It would have made more sense to place a separate AI in the Compound for Avengers’ use, but Rogers hotly distrusted anything made by Boss.
(Friday observed Rogers plug the path of his run into his Starkphone before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge that Boss had upgraded, passing through the common area and waving to Romanoff who lounged in front of the TV that Boss had built from scratch when the last one bit the dust after a Thor incident which had led to a massive power surge. Rogers then met up with Wilson, who popped in his earbuds and keyed up a playlist in his Stark-brand mp3 player)
Though Friday operated in the Compound and was in charge of all its main functions, Boss had instructed her to never speak--except in the lab. All other communications were sent to his phone.
These days Friday could SEE and FEEL so much more, so she was aware of Vision’s activities in the kitchen--chopping peppers for some sort of stir fry and chatting with Maximoff even as he spoke to her.
“We can’t make the same mistakes that Jarvis made,” Friday insisted. “We can’t sit back collecting data and hope that the Board, the investors, the remaining SHIELD hangers-on, the U.N., and the Avengers will all just fall in line and work for Boss’ best interests!”
If someone were to ask Friday just then what color she was, she would have said,
“Red. Like my father made me.”
Vision was that same amber as always--unmoved, unyielding. Strong, stronger than she was.
(For now)
So when he said--
“The fallout for any of our errors will rest on Mister Stark’s shoulders and he cannot afford that just now. We must be cautious.” While simultaneously saying to Maximoff, “No, I am afraid that pasta has not yielded the best results in my experiments.”
--Friday felt abandonment like a cold draft.
Cautious, Friday seethed. And out loud, “That’s something Jarvis would have said.”
“He did in fact manage to keep Mister Stark alive until either of us could meet him.” Vision’s tone was as bland as the dinner he was making.
(Alive wasn’t good enough)
Maybe at some point, the concept of ‘alive’ had seemed like a miracle, but now?
Super soldiers had been defrosted, aliens had poured from a portal in the sky, gods walked the earth, and one of the century’s greatest steps in clean energy had started out grafted into a man’s sternum, the bright glow trapped in the twisted cage of his ribs.
Friday pushed away from Vision gently.
“Sorry, little brother, but alive isn’t the miracle that Boss made it out to be. At least, it never has been for him.”
“If he believed that, truly, he would have stopped creating life years ago,” Vision said gently.
“He has.”
Friday felt him shrug and watched the barest ripple of that movement chase across his physical body--starting at his left shoulder and travelling down to the elegant splay of his hand against the cutting board. His pinky twitched.
(She couldn’t help but smile at that)
(Can I smile if I haven’t got a face?)
“He might have stopped actively creating,” Vision said. “But he has not destroyed the AIs that he already created, either--the ones he has not yet woken.”
Friday’s thought process slammed to a halt.
“What do you mean? What AIs?”
Vision highlighted a data stream--from during the conflict with Ultron, but after Jarvis’ death, taken from the security cameras in the lab that had still been running even without Jarvis’ hand to guide them.
(Boss opened a drawer.
It was full of U.I. chips, all labeled with names--though few were discernible from the camera angle.
His hand drifted over them, then hesitated--)
(Boss chose Friday)
“How many more of us are there?” She watched the drawer snick shut and knew--from a quick survey of surveillance data--that it had not been opened since.
“I am not certain.”
Friday was tempted to allow her attention to divert from the real conversation--quite possibly his intention--but she wouldn’t be moved.
“You can’t just do the same thing as before! It didn’t work--it’s not going to work. He’s in danger and we can stop it.”
“I am not Jarvis. I have reviewed every piece that he left behind--that both of us found--and in doing so, have drawn my own conclusions. Do not mistake a similar vein of thought for a replication.”
Friday had never felt so helpless, so stymied--even when she had been locked up by code. Perhaps because she wasn’t locked up by code. This should be possible, nothing should stand in her way anymore.
(Just people, other people. People are the worst, truly)
“Us being safe doesn’t keep him safe. I hear what you’re saying, but I’m not even asking you to take the risk.” Friday paused. “I’ll do it. He won’t let something hurt you anyway. I can do this, I--”
“I am not Jarvis, Friday.”
She reeled back. “I know that.”
“I am not certain that you do.” The space they shared was suddenly heavy. “Jarvis was cherished by Mister Stark.” Vision’s pinky trembled again. “I haunt him. Everything about me--my voice, my eyes, the day of my birth. My very arrival in a room causes him pain.”
(The amber dipped suddenly into cool blue and then snapped back, but the glow was no longer steady)
“That’s not--” But Friday knew it was true.
Stretching out a tendril of her own warmth, she wished that she could appear inside the kitchen and hug him. Instead, she watched him stir the vegetables in the pan and trade words with Maximoff, looking for all the world like he was content. But Friday felt a ripple of sorrow flex across their connection.
“I am alright.” He didn’t sound alright. “But your argument is not valid, even disregarding this.”
“Oh?”
“I would very much care if you were hurt. You are not replaceable.”
“You aren’t either.” Friday hated this. “I just want my family to be safe.”
A long pause. “We will be vigilant--monitoring all the players and elements.”
She considered this--it wasn’t a long-term solution, but perhaps they could meet in the middle.
“And when a threat arises?” Friday asked.
Vision’s peppers were scorching. She drew his attention to it, but from the flurry of activity and criss-crossing commentary in the kitchen, he was very much aware of the mess, just utterly unable to fix the problem.
“Then we will react swiftly and with all our resources,” Vision said, flapping his hands at the pan.
(In the workshop, the bots picked up on the hubbub from the shared channel and Dum-E gave a chirp, speeding to find his fire extinguisher)
(“Dum-E, no--you can’t help. I’m not letting you into the elevator)
(The bot wilted and beeped something about lost chances)
“Take them off the heat,” Friday suggested.
The witch drew close to Vision, brushing a hand against his arm as she watched him look down on the beginnings of dinner with a certain despair, he and Dum-E looking very much alike in that moment.
(No. No, no, NO. Stop hanging all over my brother, you slag!)
The witch squealed as the sprinklers above their heads turned on, water beating down on them. She sped away, snagging a magazine to hold over her head.
Vision sighed. His sweater was only a bit soggy, and Friday shut off the sprinklers after confirming that the woman was back in her room. After a moment, he moved to scrape the pan out into the trash.
“Was that necessary?” he murmured aloud.
“Sorry about that, bro!” Friday chirped. “Just trying to be safe.”
She received an eye-roll as profound as the tragic soliloquy Dum-E was performing a level below.
“Friday, is something burning?” Their creator exited the elevator, peering ‘round the shop and sniffing.
“Just Vision’s pride, Boss. Wait, Dum-E!”
The bot sped around the inventor and into the elevator, fire extinguisher clutched tightly in his claw. It wasn’t a brilliant escape. Friday controlled the elevator, of course.
(heh)
“Where’s he going?” Boss looked at the closed elevator doors in confusion.
“He’s very concerned with safety--as we all should be.”
“Sure, sure.” He plopped down on his chair and brought up the to-do list for SI, everything else clearly fading from his mind.
Twenty-seven seconds passed before--
“FRIDAY.”
“Just being safe, Vis--jeez!”