[Among the people of various shapes and sizes milling about, you might catch a glimpse of something that is a different shape and size altogether, and also it's not a people at all. It's basically a three-foot-tall yellow box.
The box is zipping around on a wheel, the single lens on its face swiveling around curiously as it gets underfoot absolutely everywhere. Some people manage to side-step out of the way before it collides with them, but a few are caught unaware and knocked to the ground. The box doesn't seem to care, continuing on its haphazard route throughout the basecamp. It might express some inane thought in a shrill, slightly mechanical voice before wheeling on:
The baths? It's there. Watching you.] Wow, is that what you look like under clothes? Ugh. I mean -- impressive! All those squishy, dangly bits! Great! Not horrific at all!
[The mess hall? It's arguing with a cook who appears to be refusing to give it food.] This is discrimination! I'll complain! I'll write a letter!
[The bunks? It's become an actual box, its wheel, arms, and antenna safely closed inside it. Maybe it's sleeping? It sure is making a sleeping sound, though it's more like something that you might hear in a cartoon -- a loud, drawn out snore, and then a high-pitched mi-mi-mi-mi as it "breathes" out. If you listen long enough, you'll figure out that this is literally a recording.
Anywhere else? Yeah, he's probably there being annoying, too. Wildcard me.]
ii. NETWORK.
Greetings, Cartagena! It's nice to meet another robot in this place! I was worried I would only have all these disgusting fleshbags for company! Ha Ha Ha! That was a joke! I love fleshbags.
Psst. Cartagena. It wasn't a joke.
AHEM. For the purposes of educating everyone, here are my answers:
1. I am a CL4P-TP steward robot, proudly manufactured by the Hypherion Corporation! Until a genocidal maniac destroyed my entire product line and left me alone in a cold, unfeeling universe, surrounded by people who don't like me because they're jealous of my natural talent and charisma!
You can call me Claptrap.
2. Oh, boy. That's a hard question. I was manufactured by the Hyperion Corporation, so I guess I'm from a factory? Unless you're asking where my original designation was, because that would be on Pandora, the worst planet in the six galaxies! Well, maybe this one is worse. Really, acid rain??
3. The aroma of fresh ground coffee. It reminds me of home, of better times: of love long lost and love yet to be found. It reminds me of a cozy winter morning; of talking a solitary, peaceful walk; of watching birds bathe in sun-dappled water. I'm kidding, I don't have an olfactory system.
4. Whatever people love. Tarantulas, right? Those are furry. Humans love furry things.
5. My memory has been erased so many times that I don't remember! Any day could be my birthday! Wow!
6. Yes, absolutely! In fact, we should talk more. At length. Maybe by candlelight?
claptrap / borderlands
[Among the people of various shapes and sizes milling about, you might catch a glimpse of something that is a different shape and size altogether, and also it's not a people at all. It's basically a three-foot-tall yellow box.
The box is zipping around on a wheel, the single lens on its face swiveling around curiously as it gets underfoot absolutely everywhere. Some people manage to side-step out of the way before it collides with them, but a few are caught unaware and knocked to the ground. The box doesn't seem to care, continuing on its haphazard route throughout the basecamp. It might express some inane thought in a shrill, slightly mechanical voice before wheeling on:
The baths? It's there. Watching you.] Wow, is that what you look like under clothes? Ugh. I mean -- impressive! All those squishy, dangly bits! Great! Not horrific at all!
[The mess hall? It's arguing with a cook who appears to be refusing to give it food.] This is discrimination! I'll complain! I'll write a letter!
[The bunks? It's become an actual box, its wheel, arms, and antenna safely closed inside it. Maybe it's sleeping? It sure is making a sleeping sound, though it's more like something that you might hear in a cartoon -- a loud, drawn out snore, and then a high-pitched mi-mi-mi-mi as it "breathes" out. If you listen long enough, you'll figure out that this is literally a recording.
Anywhere else? Yeah, he's probably there being annoying, too. Wildcard me.]
ii. NETWORK.
Greetings, Cartagena! It's nice to meet another robot in this place! I was worried I would only have all these disgusting fleshbags for company! Ha Ha Ha! That was a joke! I love fleshbags.
Psst. Cartagena. It wasn't a joke.
AHEM. For the purposes of educating everyone, here are my answers:
1. I am a CL4P-TP steward robot, proudly manufactured by the Hypherion Corporation! Until a genocidal maniac destroyed my entire product line and left me alone in a cold, unfeeling universe, surrounded by people who don't like me because they're jealous of my natural talent and charisma!
You can call me Claptrap.
2. Oh, boy. That's a hard question. I was manufactured by the Hyperion Corporation, so I guess I'm from a factory? Unless you're asking where my original designation was, because that would be on Pandora, the worst planet in the six galaxies! Well, maybe this one is worse. Really, acid rain??
3. The aroma of fresh ground coffee. It reminds me of home, of better times: of love long lost and love yet to be found. It reminds me of a cozy winter morning; of talking a solitary, peaceful walk; of watching birds bathe in sun-dappled water. I'm kidding, I don't have an olfactory system.
4. Whatever people love. Tarantulas, right? Those are furry. Humans love furry things.
5. My memory has been erased so many times that I don't remember! Any day could be my birthday! Wow!
6. Yes, absolutely! In fact, we should talk more. At length. Maybe by candlelight?