Shingo stumbled, his left leg folding beneath him, and he only just managed to catch himself on the bars on either side of him. Inui didn’t rush to help him, trusting that he had it all in hand, and instead scribbled down another note on the clipboard he was holding. When Inui looked up again, Shingo was looking at him with something akin to a glare; there was less heat in it though, more frustration, more fear.
“The responsiveness keeps cutting out,” Shingo said, still holding himself up with the parallel bars. His spindly, temporary prosthetic of a left leg dangled underneath him, motionless now. The final, more realistic model, wouldn’t be in for another week, but the temporary one would get his brain used to using it.
“It’s because you’re trying to use it like a leg,” Inui said.
Shingo frowned. “Oh, of course. A foolish mistake.”
Inui frowned at Shingo’s tone. “Your brain hasn’t learned to send signals to your new leg. It can’t send them exactly like it did to the old one. It has to learn.”
Inui was quite certain that Shingo was rolling his eyes, but he looked away to do so. “My old leg… You talk like I’m just trading in parts.”
Inui adjusted his glasses, letting the light that his cybernetic eyes produced refract through the lenses. He projected an image, and threw it out far enough that Kinjou could see even as he was looking away. It was a model of a human, standing with his limbs spread out, and on the model he tacked on a diagram and laundry list of augmentations: cybernetic eyes, data ports, artificial nervous system, replaced joints, artificial fingers, so on and so on and so on.
“I suppose, in my situation, I’ve grown quite accustomed to the idea of upgrades,” Inui said.
Shingo looked back at him, still perturbed, but that hint of fear he was trying to hide refused to ebb.
“I know you and your father feel differently,” Inui added.
Shingo frowned. “I remember… When I was really young… You had your port systems replaced, didn’t you?”
Inui instinctively reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as the memory of a weight there stirred up at the mention. “I did. Upgraded from the Mark I system.”
“I thought you looked weird afterwards,” Shingo said. “I’d never seen you without that huge piece of metal wrapped around your neck.”
Inui smiled a bit. The old Mark I port system had looked something like a giant neck pillow, but far, far heavier, and unremovable. “I didn’t mourn losing it. But… it was difficult afterwards.”
“You were in bed for a long time.”
Inui nodded. “I hadn’t moved my neck for years. The muscles had atrophied. And on top of that, I had to relearn the system that wired into my brain. But… It was worth it.”
“I was worried about you,” Shingo said.
Inui cocked his head to the side, surprised. “What?”
“I didn’t want you to know. Or father. Father told me it wasn’t serious, so I knew I shouldn’t have been worried, but… I didn’t really understand it then. I was afraid.”
Inui thought for a minute before setting down his clipboard and walking over to Shingo. He held out his hands, and before him he projected another figure, simpler this time.
“Shingo… When a spider has a port system installed, it essentially takes over their entire nervous system. The entire point of the system is to trick the brain into being able to control a network of computers and drones the same way one would control their own body. It can be tricky, even when switching from one system to the next.” Inui moved his arms and flexed his fingers, but the holographic model he projected mirrored the action, but not exactly. “It can be hard to get everything on the same page again.”
Shingo looked at the model, his eyebrows knitting. “Then how do you do it?”
“Every spider has their own method that works for them. There are a few models to work off of, but all of them need tweaking for the individual.”
“And you?” Kinjou asked.
“I calculate all of the exact data that would be needed to take the action I want to make — the exact degree of muscle movement, muscle tension, et cetera — and build upon those formulas until the desired result comes about.”
Shingo stared at him incredulously.
“But, as I said, methods differ.”
Shingo shifted, moving his left hip so that the prosthetic dangled beneath him. “It won’t be the same though… I can’t…” Shingo faltered, and Inui waited patiently him to continue. “I can’t go back to my career after this.”
“Your father’s career,” Inui corrected him. “Your life isn’t the family business, Shingo.”
“It’s what I’ve trained for my whole life.”
“And you have a lot of skills from it that will serve you well.”
Shingo frowned at him. “What hope do I have of—”
Inui cut him off with a sharp hand wave. “Hope is meaningless, Shingo. There’s only data. And your data has changed, but it hasn’t been erased. All of your data up to this point has projected towards your goal of taking over your father’s mantle. But now, there has been a significant shift in your data. But there’s no intrinsic end goal to data, only the ones you give it. All you can do is build on the base you have now, and find a goal that fits better.”
Shingo swallowed, and shifted his weight so that his prosthetic was touching the ground again. The limb didn’t move, but the knee joint didn’t buckle either.
“I believe my goal then,” Shingo said, “is to make my upgraded leg work.”
Inui smiled. “That seems like a fine goal.”
“Maybe you could tell me about some of the other methods spiders use to make their port systems work,” Shingo said.
Inui crossed his arms, but didn’t quite manage to look indignant. “I thought you’d like my calculation method. It’s been included in several technical journals, you know.”
“I know, Dad.” Shingo said, smiling.
Inui smiled back, sparking his projections up again. “But I suppose I can display a few other methods, if it would be helpful.”
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/MIYUKI KAZUYA, T
Word Count: 1049
Shingo stumbled, his left leg folding beneath him, and he only just managed to catch himself on the bars on either side of him. Inui didn’t rush to help him, trusting that he had it all in hand, and instead scribbled down another note on the clipboard he was holding. When Inui looked up again, Shingo was looking at him with something akin to a glare; there was less heat in it though, more frustration, more fear.
“The responsiveness keeps cutting out,” Shingo said, still holding himself up with the parallel bars. His spindly, temporary prosthetic of a left leg dangled underneath him, motionless now. The final, more realistic model, wouldn’t be in for another week, but the temporary one would get his brain used to using it.
“It’s because you’re trying to use it like a leg,” Inui said.
Shingo frowned. “Oh, of course. A foolish mistake.”
Inui frowned at Shingo’s tone. “Your brain hasn’t learned to send signals to your new leg. It can’t send them exactly like it did to the old one. It has to learn.”
Inui was quite certain that Shingo was rolling his eyes, but he looked away to do so. “My old leg… You talk like I’m just trading in parts.”
Inui adjusted his glasses, letting the light that his cybernetic eyes produced refract through the lenses. He projected an image, and threw it out far enough that Kinjou could see even as he was looking away. It was a model of a human, standing with his limbs spread out, and on the model he tacked on a diagram and laundry list of augmentations: cybernetic eyes, data ports, artificial nervous system, replaced joints, artificial fingers, so on and so on and so on.
“I suppose, in my situation, I’ve grown quite accustomed to the idea of upgrades,” Inui said.
Shingo looked back at him, still perturbed, but that hint of fear he was trying to hide refused to ebb.
“I know you and your father feel differently,” Inui added.
Shingo frowned. “I remember… When I was really young… You had your port systems replaced, didn’t you?”
Inui instinctively reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as the memory of a weight there stirred up at the mention. “I did. Upgraded from the Mark I system.”
“I thought you looked weird afterwards,” Shingo said. “I’d never seen you without that huge piece of metal wrapped around your neck.”
Inui smiled a bit. The old Mark I port system had looked something like a giant neck pillow, but far, far heavier, and unremovable. “I didn’t mourn losing it. But… it was difficult afterwards.”
“You were in bed for a long time.”
Inui nodded. “I hadn’t moved my neck for years. The muscles had atrophied. And on top of that, I had to relearn the system that wired into my brain. But… It was worth it.”
“I was worried about you,” Shingo said.
Inui cocked his head to the side, surprised. “What?”
“I didn’t want you to know. Or father. Father told me it wasn’t serious, so I knew I shouldn’t have been worried, but… I didn’t really understand it then. I was afraid.”
Inui thought for a minute before setting down his clipboard and walking over to Shingo. He held out his hands, and before him he projected another figure, simpler this time.
“Shingo… When a spider has a port system installed, it essentially takes over their entire nervous system. The entire point of the system is to trick the brain into being able to control a network of computers and drones the same way one would control their own body. It can be tricky, even when switching from one system to the next.” Inui moved his arms and flexed his fingers, but the holographic model he projected mirrored the action, but not exactly. “It can be hard to get everything on the same page again.”
Shingo looked at the model, his eyebrows knitting. “Then how do you do it?”
“Every spider has their own method that works for them. There are a few models to work off of, but all of them need tweaking for the individual.”
“And you?” Kinjou asked.
“I calculate all of the exact data that would be needed to take the action I want to make — the exact degree of muscle movement, muscle tension, et cetera — and build upon those formulas until the desired result comes about.”
Shingo stared at him incredulously.
“But, as I said, methods differ.”
Shingo shifted, moving his left hip so that the prosthetic dangled beneath him. “It won’t be the same though… I can’t…” Shingo faltered, and Inui waited patiently him to continue. “I can’t go back to my career after this.”
“Your father’s career,” Inui corrected him. “Your life isn’t the family business, Shingo.”
“It’s what I’ve trained for my whole life.”
“And you have a lot of skills from it that will serve you well.”
Shingo frowned at him. “What hope do I have of—”
Inui cut him off with a sharp hand wave. “Hope is meaningless, Shingo. There’s only data. And your data has changed, but it hasn’t been erased. All of your data up to this point has projected towards your goal of taking over your father’s mantle. But now, there has been a significant shift in your data. But there’s no intrinsic end goal to data, only the ones you give it. All you can do is build on the base you have now, and find a goal that fits better.”
Shingo swallowed, and shifted his weight so that his prosthetic was touching the ground again. The limb didn’t move, but the knee joint didn’t buckle either.
“I believe my goal then,” Shingo said, “is to make my upgraded leg work.”
Inui smiled. “That seems like a fine goal.”
“Maybe you could tell me about some of the other methods spiders use to make their port systems work,” Shingo said.
Inui crossed his arms, but didn’t quite manage to look indignant. “I thought you’d like my calculation method. It’s been included in several technical journals, you know.”
“I know, Dad.” Shingo said, smiling.
Inui smiled back, sparking his projections up again. “But I suppose I can display a few other methods, if it would be helpful.”