Work Text:
1. Origin
You run your hand over your face, stopping to massage just above your browbone.
"Otto, you misunderstand me. It's brilliant work, it's just also astoundingly dangerous."
He unclasps his hands, folded tidily in front of him, turning his palms upward and giving you a little shrug. "Aren't all great scientific advancements?"
You shake your head vigorously. You need to make him understand. "You're taking an unnecessary risk."
"But it works, right?" he implores, cracking that charming smile of his. That smile might work on his Oscorp investors, but it wouldn't work on you.
"There's no way to know for sure until it's been connected to your nervous system, but in theory, yes. It should work." You glance up at him, and before his ego can get too inflated, you throw in the pinprick, "Just not as intended."
He sighs and smiles a bit more sheepishly, then leans back in his chair. "Alright, then explain it to me. This isn't my area of expertise, after all."
You almost laugh out loud at that. No, technically programming wasn't his area of expertise. Nor was robotics. Nor was biology. And yet he had built a biorobotic device that was one of the most, if not the most, advanced in existence and programmed its accompanying AI. This man had made every discipline of this cross disciplinary project his new area of expertise. If he weren't so passionate about nuclear physics, you'd expect him to change fields altogether.
You admire the machine from across the lab, beautiful and dangerous. The metal arms shine spectacularly under the lights, seemingly ready to be exhibited, but you hope you can prevent that for a little longer.
"When you connect the device to your brainstem, you may well lose control of it," you say.
He nods seriously. "Go on."
"The AI is programmed to connect as seamlessly as possible with your own brain, which, obviously, has many benefits to you as the operator. But it runs a high risk of forming a feedback loop, in which the AI receives input from your brain, learns from it, then mimics it, until you can no longer tell where your consciousness ends and the AI begins. The AI could easily take over your entire consciousness."
You can see him thinking at lightning speed, undaunted. As his friend and collaborator since university, you know he trusts your knowledge and won't argue with you, but you can tell he's already trying to figure out a fast solution.
"What about an inhibitor chip?" he proposes. "It would filter the information going into and out of the brainstem, merely relaying the information from the AI instead of allowing it to connect to my brain directly. That would eliminate the risk of entanglement, would it not?"
You half nod, half shrug. "It's a band-aid. More importantly, it's a new point of failure. If anything isn't perfect with that chip, it's useless." You lock onto his gaze, unblinking, and you poke your finger at him for emphasis. "If you want this done right, this AI needs to be reprogrammed from the ground up."
You're surprised when you read the hesitation in his face.
"Otto, you know I could help you." You wave your hand in a shooing motion, adding, "If it's a matter of funding, don't worry about it. You'll owe me one. This is your safety we're talking about."
He shakes his head. "Funding isn't the issue. Time is. The demonstration is next week."
You make a noise of disgust. "Then find another way to do it."
"There is no other way," he says seriously, pressing his lips together, staring at the table. "The demonstration cannot be accomplished without the assistance of the actuators. And this is a critical moment."
"Delay it, then."
His eyelids flutter, and he smiles unhumorously, looking at you again. "We already delayed it. If we move it again we might lose funding, and that's out of the question. The young Harry Osborn is still a big fan, but his company's board isn't nearly so charitable."
"Why did you wait so long on this, Otto?" you demand heatedly. It wasn't like him to procrastinate on a major deadline, and his carelessness put him in danger.
He chuckles, sweeping one hand through his neatly combed hair. He looks suddenly vulnerable, maybe a little embarrassed, and he crosses his arms in front of himself. "Hubris, you might say." His shoulders lift, as he looks off into the distance, sighing. "I didn't really expect there to be any issues with it, if I'm entirely honest. I was fully confident in my programming, but Rosie insisted that I have someone else take a look at it—that I have you take a look at it."
"It's always been funny to me that of the two of you, the poet is the one with her feet on the ground, and the scientist has his head in the clouds." He looks back to you, relieved your expression has softened. "At least one of you has some sense."
He chuckles. "I'll tell her you said so—she'll be glad someone else is putting me in my place, for once."
You finally slide the box containing his hard drive full of programming across the table. You both look down at it, then again at each other. He waits for you to speak again.
"The inhibitor chip idea will do for now. But please, Otto, only use it for the demonstration. Then let's work on fixing this together. Your work is going to change the world, and it deserves to be done right. And most importantly, done safely."
You reach out to shake his hand, and he grasps yours with both of his. "I promise," he says, "the chip will only be used for this demonstration. Then we'll fix it." You smile at each other and share a determined nod.
You both stand from the table, and he pulls you into a hug. "Thank you, my friend. I knew I could count on you."
"Your wife knew you could count on me, you mean," you rib him.
As he picks up his box, he points to you with a mischievous smile. "Speaking of my wife, you need to join us for dinner next week. Her orders. How about you come to the demonstration, then we'll go out for a celebration after?"
You can't help but smile back. His hopeful mood was infectious. "Can't say no to Rosie, now can I? Now had it been you—"
He laughs. "I'll let her know. She'll be delighted."
"Tell her I'm looking forward to it." You give him a little wave over your shoulder as you head for the door, relieved that the problems you had would soon be fixed— perhaps not as soon as you'd like, but soon enough.