Libby was concerned about her crew. Her latest linked operating system, as she thought of it privately. A thing to optimize and tweak, build connections into without making any herself. But things weren't going right. Most of the components fit fine. But the main driver and the programmer were in conflict. Libby couldn't get a hold of Nikolai. The memory was fine, the auxliary drives were fine, she had them snug in the OS. But the power of the machine was twisting and out of her hands. She couldn't figure it out and that was stressful.
(She thought this way about machjnes too. It's not humanizing them; it's pointing out humans are machines too, they can be wired and programmed to work together. If she does it with other machines she can do it here.)
Her self upgrades weren't good enough and he seemed to think he was the programmer and she was junk tech. Completely wrong. Who was hacking the Loki system? She was. She was the one doing all the programming but he kept being a concern.
Like she always did when a program was a problem, she went for a walk. This wasn't helping her personal system crash; she was exhausted all the time, rationing her medicine. Sinc her fingers trembled in stillness sometimes she made a point to keep them moving. She couldn't remember the last time she ate--she'd gorged herself here, amazed, but now it didn't seem worth it.
The Loki problem was the reason for all of this. She had to extract the useful data and get out, as elegantly as possible. She should have been working on that and not her novel system, but she had to sustain both, and it was driving her up walls. She needed her system after Loki for survival. She needed his data for survival.
It was wicked fucking awful.
(No one ever sees Libby like this. Focused, not manic. Efficient and actually quiet for once in her fucking life. She doesn't let them see it because what a boring face it is--forgettable. Erasable. It doesn't demand attention.)
Tyke doesn't see that face. Instead she sees Libby, smirking and holding a bottle of rum, eyebrows raised. She had come out of curiosity because--a cello, here? When she was hissing her loathing at Edgeworth she left out the part of her life that had cellos in it. Not relevant to her now. But yeah, she remembered. She had a piano.
"A fucking violin," she lies, waving the half empty bottle, "Classy rad, bud. Fuck are you doing with a violin?"
Libby: blonde, short, slight. Currently not wearing her sleeves rolled up. A newsboy cap over messy hair. Not a very imposing figure.
liquor and music yes
(She thought this way about machjnes too. It's not humanizing them; it's pointing out humans are machines too, they can be wired and programmed to work together. If she does it with other machines she can do it here.)
Her self upgrades weren't good enough and he seemed to think he was the programmer and she was junk tech. Completely wrong. Who was hacking the Loki system? She was. She was the one doing all the programming but he kept being a concern.
Like she always did when a program was a problem, she went for a walk. This wasn't helping her personal system crash; she was exhausted all the time, rationing her medicine. Sinc her fingers trembled in stillness sometimes she made a point to keep them moving. She couldn't remember the last time she ate--she'd gorged herself here, amazed, but now it didn't seem worth it.
The Loki problem was the reason for all of this. She had to extract the useful data and get out, as elegantly as possible. She should have been working on that and not her novel system, but she had to sustain both, and it was driving her up walls. She needed her system after Loki for survival. She needed his data for survival.
It was wicked fucking awful.
(No one ever sees Libby like this. Focused, not manic. Efficient and actually quiet for once in her fucking life. She doesn't let them see it because what a boring face it is--forgettable. Erasable. It doesn't demand attention.)
Tyke doesn't see that face. Instead she sees Libby, smirking and holding a bottle of rum, eyebrows raised. She had come out of curiosity because--a cello, here? When she was hissing her loathing at Edgeworth she left out the part of her life that had cellos in it. Not relevant to her now. But yeah, she remembered. She had a piano.
"A fucking violin," she lies, waving the half empty bottle, "Classy rad, bud. Fuck are you doing with a violin?"
Libby: blonde, short, slight. Currently not wearing her sleeves rolled up. A newsboy cap over messy hair. Not a very imposing figure.