One more robot learns to be something more than a machine. [Closed, predictably, to Dustin Silver]

[slainrobots.livejournal.com]

Yoshimi is seated in the middle of the floor, her book forgotten on her bed, left leg stretched out in front of her, frown fixed on her face.

You may or may not be wondering what in all hell she is doing, especially when she starts swearing for no visible reason.

Here's your answer: The Robots Slayer's prosthesis isn't cooperating, and even as she tries to wiggle the five little piggies on her left foot, all she can get the damn thing to do is twitch oddly at the ankle.

"Figures that it'd start misbehaving eventually," she mutters, shifting to bend it at the knee.  She spends a few moments poking at the joints on the bottom of her toes, the muttering becoming a constant pretty quickly.

One toe twitches, and she freezes.

Comments

[quark-assassin.livejournal.com]

“Well of course I am!” came the matter-of-fact reply from the scruffy fellow adjusting his pants across the room, “I’m not sure how to make that any more obvious, people never seem to believe me when I tell them—“

A pause. It was almost as if Dustin’s ego had inflated to the point that it was hindering his motor functions, leaving him frozen with a hand on his waistline and another on his belt (perhaps it should be noted that said belt had a few extra holes punched in so that it would fit properly); eventually he took on a more casual stance and his residual giddiness managed to manifest itself as a joking raise of the brow. Dustin picked up his greatcoat and held it in front of him.

“—Yoshimi, I’ve already seen you naked. There’s not much else for me to discover if you walked across the room for all of four and a quarter seconds to get your clothes.” Yes, he’d noticed that look on her face, the hesitant shifting of legs to the side of the bed. Logic was, fortunately, willing to humor her. “Look, if…if it bothers you that much, I can turn around for a few minutes. Or…something. Maybe I’ll pop inside the bathroom—thinking about showering anyways, now’s as good a time as ever.”

On that note, Dustin abandoned his black and red t-shirt with a long toss onto his own cot next to the forgotten gauntlets—the fuel for all of this in the first place—instead deciding to slip the overcoat upon his shoulders for temporary cover. And, ever in the rambling mood, he continued:

“You know, Stacy rotates clothing to the front of the Possessions Lockers right after each stasis release cycle,” he said, deliberately addressing the wall, “ ‘S where I got this coat from. Nobody claimed it, figured it wouldn’t be missed. I’m sure you could find a decent pair of jeans if you looked around up there. Might have some trouble with the motorcycle, th—th—“

There was a rather unpleasant memory that shoveled its way to the forefront of Dustin’s mind, playing out in front of him: rushing wind past his ears, the roar of engines, two types, blinding lights and the sickening crunch of tissue under tires, fractured metal mixing with bone and blood, a twitching finger illuminated by flashlight—

“—A mechanic, though, you really shouldn’t have to ask that question…”

[slainrobots.livejournal.com]

She doesn't even reply to the narcissism from a moment ago, distracted as she is with glaring at him for the latter comment.

"Self-consciousness doesn't speak Logic, jackass. You wouldn't know that, though, would you? Your ego's larger than your brain, which really ought to be physically impossible." And yeah, predictably her cheeks are flushed, and she pulls the sheet tighter around her torso, the tail end of it draping over the edge of the bed and, conveniently, her legs. "Anyway, I'm not about to move now that you've brought it up. That just makes it worse."

Ah, insecurity and contrariness, how poorly wonderfully you mix.

She watches him toss his shirt, sling that overlarge coat around his shoulders, saunter towards the bathroom, all with an expression of some weird, more-energetic-than-usual scorn. She grumbles something about not caring what Stacy does, that she's not going to wear some stranger's pants, because that's just weird, and is halfway through a particularly emphatic moue aimed at his back when the man freezes and falls silent for a fraction of a second too long. Her eyes narrow, head tilting, but she doesn't ask.

"Ah, well... I wasn't planning on... you know, bothering you about it," she mumbles after a few seconds, still eyeing him cautiously, wishing she could have seen whatever expression had just flashed across his face.