GeneralBT

"It feels... weird..." Basil shifted slightly to the side. From somewhere inside his immense chest, there was a clang, followed by a muffled curse. "Hold still!" the muffled voice finally rang true as its owner stuck his head out of the robot's cavernous middle. Basil looked down to see a very stern-looking Burt staring back up at him. Ever since their... abrupt...arrival on Levion, Burt had taken to upgrading Basil with aplomb. The majority of the time Basil welcomed the necessary attention and repairs. But there were occasionally days like today... "If you keep moving, the new stuff won't fit right!" the mechanic said, waving an instrument Basil didn't recognize like a gigantic wagging finger. "Sorry..." Basil said with all honesty. At the very least, Burt's attentions kept Basil busy... until Zeke, Anya and Lyon came back with spare parts, there was little Basil could do other than plan out the repairs he personally knew how to do. He was particularly pleased with his ideas on how some of the old engineering circuitry could be modified and made more efficient with a few spare boards... even Burt had liked the idea. "Can't just halfway install a ventral power capacitor and all its circuit boards!" said Burt's angry noises brought Basil back to the present. Momentarily, they rung with a metallic echo as Burt re-entered his project. "I've got to manually move some of your old equipment aside... I'm not Moses you know..." As Burt fussed, Basil sighed, and tried his best to comply. The sensation would always feel strange to him--HE was supposed to be the repair bot, and of course, nothing felt odder than someone's fingers or tools poking around your innards... especially when the poking was followed by exclamations of delight or dismay that used combinations of words Basil had never heard of before. "There!" Burt finally said, as Basil felt a surge of energy vent through his system. The robot's eyes flew wide, power coursing cleanly through his circuitry for the first time in ages. He felt hot...blazing, and cold at the same time, his eyes flashing around the hold of the ship, unable to focus on anything for more than a second. "What's gotten into you?" Burt started to say. "You look a kid that's eaten a bucket of sugar..." "S..s..s...s..." Basil stuttered, the power surge overwhelming his voice circuits. He looked down at his arm... to his surprise, it was trembling slightly. His left leg rose up and started shaking uncontrollably, and an arc of blue electricity rippled down his right arm with a faint buzz. "Woah...uh oh..." Already Burt was back inside, and after several dings, pokes and prods, Basil felt the energy surge come back down. "Okay, buddy-boy, looks like the new capacitors overwhelmed your vocal cords and central cortex. Till I get time and more parts to play with those, we'll just have to tone you back a bit..." Burt started to whistle happily--this would mean another trip out the ship to collect scrap... something Basil was sure pleased Burt to no end. "Okay..." Basil said, tiredness already seeping into his voice. After the power overload, all his processors were demanding a momentary downtime... just a moment... "No, you can't go off to sleep yet," Burt tapped him repeatedly. "We've got your new skin to fit on..."

?Female robots that can reproduce? How? odd?? R-112 still had trouble wrapping his mind around what Zeke had told him. Too many logical quandaries rattled around in his mechanical brain. It wasn?t until a few minutes after he?d left Zeke?s side that R-112 admitted to himself that he was in a time and surrounded by technology that would continue to surprise and confound him?he?d have to learn, to adapt, and to accept things that didn?t make sense to his own existing protocols. Strange feels went through his body as his walked through the corridors of the ship. The temporary skin that Burt had fitted onto him felt sodd, and all the various new and repaired components weird, odd to R-112. Yet the more he moved about, the more his ancient shell felt? [i]right[/i]. He felt more alive, and had far more energy, than he?d had at any time before. He tried to remember what he could of this world Levion, the place where Burt and Zeke had mentioned they could find more parts, but all his memory banks could come up with was that it was a colony near the outer fringes of what his makers had deemed ?civilization.? He made a mental note to try to access the ship?s computer to update his memory files. But for now, R-112 could feel his energy was low, so he ambled down the corridors to the room that would be his new quarters. For now, the accommodations were spartan?a bed which he ascertained was far too flimsy to support his frame, a closet for clothing, and a trunk for his nonexistent belongings. Despite this overall lack of? anything, R-112 had to smile. Firstly, because the room was [i]his[/i], the first thing he had ever physically had to himself outside his person. Secondly, because he saw Burt (bless the man, to quote one of his old superiors), had reconfigured a power connector in the room into an old-fashioned outlet that R-112 could plug into. His old reactor couldn't quite handle the new "toys" Burt had installed, so he was resorting to a very old trick to keep his power supply in trim shape. The human mechanic had promised as soon as possible he?d upgrade and repair R-112?s ancient reactor, but for now, the outlet would have to do. As he settled in, the mech took a second to reflect on everything that had happened that day?the new friends he?d made, the new home he?d found. Life outside the military was far better than he?d ever imagined. Methodically, he went through his bootdown check sequence, examining each and every piece of repair equipment, and evaluating the new and jury-rigged devices installed by Burt. When he was done, he slid to the floor by the outlet, and jacked himself in. In the last few moments before the buzz of the ship?s power supply took him away for the next few hours, he realized he was missing one thing. He searched his memory banks, through the stories he?d overheard others tell around him. Finally, he found something he liked. He decided on a name. Basil.

R-112 frowned. He had been programmed to be able to aid his human commanders should they be injured, that was true. One of his logic programs had been created by some of the best and brightest medical minds in the universe? at the time of his creation. The human body didn?t change, but R-112 had learned several things separated fixing humans from fixing androids?humans were far more fragile, and the human mind often needed as much healing as the body it controlled. ?I will need a scalpel, a prober, and a dose of anesthetic,? he rumbled. Now that his capacitors and voice modulators had been tweaked by Burt, the scratchy static that had previously overwhelmed his words had faded somewhat. ?Kilo, could you please place restraints on his arms, so he does not move?? ?How much is a dose?? Zeke asked. Already drawers were open, and vials, bottles and instruments were out. Zeke was peering at several of them. ?Wouldn?t it be easier to just lop off his limb and make a new one?? ?Don?t listen to him!? Burt cried. His flailing had stopped against Kilo?s strength as the larger mech gently but forcefully held him into the table, strapping him in place. ?If you give a human too much, it?ll fry their body,? Anya answered for R-112, trying to help with the search. She flashed a look of motherly reproach at Zeke for his continued comments, but said no more. ?We can?t find the oral kind,? she announced a few moments later. ?All I see is a vial that has to be administered intravenously.? ?A needle?? Zeke said, coming out with a particularly large, particularly sharp looking specimen of the same. ?A needle? You?re going to give me just a local?? Burt complained as Zeke and Anya handed the instruments to R-112. The big mech measured out a dose, before turning back to his patient. ?This will sting,? he said quietly. ?Why do all doctors and automedics tell you that when they have a needle?? Burt muttered, hissing between his teeth. R-112 tried to inject the anesthetic as painlessly as possible, but there was only so much one could do with a needle. ?Now, we wait for the anesthetic,? he sighed. For a few moments silence hung in the room, as R-112 counted seconds in his mind. After he reached thirty, he touched Burt?s hands, asking if the human felt anything. He said no, and the mech asked for the first of the surgical tools. Gently R-112 probed the wound. There was little blood loss, that was true. The bullet, however, was delicately lodged between Burt?s brachial artery and one of the main nerve cords that ran down the length of his arm. R-112 managed to keep from hissing at his discovery, and for not the first time, he regretted out delicate humans were compared to mechs. The surgery would need to be delicate and precise. ?What?d you find?? Zeke asked impatiently. He was already pacing around the table. ?The bullet,? R-112 replied quietly, focused on his work. He didn?t say more?he?d found out long ago that with humans, sometimes ignorance kept them still long enough for the surgery to progress smoothly. Burt was still awake, and might panic if he found out the danger. R-112s processors audibly clicked and whirred, as he went through the stages of the necessary procedure again and again, playing it out in his mind before touching any instruments. Finally, he looked up at the others. ?The scalpel, if you please,? he held out a ponderous hand. ?You know what you?re doing, right?? Burt asked uneasily. He moved uneasily against the restraints. ?You fixed my parts, I shall fix yours,? R-112 replied with the slightest hint of a smile, an attempt to reassure, before the blank look of concentration returned. Slowly, carefully, his large fingers moved the scalpel, making a small incision to gain better access. Then, those ponderous hands delicately probed with a set of extractors. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes seemed like hours as a hushed silence fell over the room. Finally, R-112?s arm motors clicked and whirred, and slowly the extractors came back out of the wound, a bloody metallic mess in their grasp. ?Regeneration fluid,? R-112 made no effort to hide the relief in his voice, setting the bullet down. Quickly a tube was in his hands, and the mech made sure to coat Burt?s wound thoroughly. Within moments, flesh was already starting to remeld and remake itself around the wound. R-112 nodded to Kilo, who quickly unstrapped the human. ?You will be sore,? R-112 smiled, ?but in about ten minutes, the wound should be healed.? The mech shook his head, ?I still cannot believe you were so focused on my innards that you did not notice a bullet in your arm!? ?You were interesting!? Burt exclaimed, flexing his hand. Just as R-112 hoped, it was functioning as designed. ?I got caught up?? Burt climbed off of the table. ?If we can get some spares at Levion, I?d like to tackle some of your cranial and brachial capacitors, they aren?t up to par?? ?Just off the surgical table and you?re ALREADY drooling over the new guy, again!? Zeke laughed. ?Please don?t have any more bullets you?ve forgotten about,? CP added with a sigh and a smile. ??and I think we could tweak some of the programming in your weaponry as well, maybe add some protocols on reloading?? Burt blabbered on, blissfully unaware or completely ignoring the comments of the others around him. Processors clicked and whirred, and R-112 realized something. He knew military commands, hierarchies, ranks and orders?lonely structures of power where he was supposed to listen, to obey. These androids?no, they weren?t merely androids, they were far more?had something else entirely. There was no commander, no subcommanders, no sergeants and no lowly grunts doing as their superiors barked. They were a family, a family of mechas, and a human, that cared about each other. A family he desperately wanted to be a part of. R-112-7A4 had always been proud of his product code, it?s what identified him as an individual, a mech with specific experiences and skills. But now, he realized that serial number didn?t describe him enough. He needed more. He knew this Carnival would change him, make him something new? ?and that required something more than a product code or a serial number. ?Everyone here has a name beyond being an android?.except me,? R-112 said finally out of the blue. ?I?I would like a name, too.?

Thanks for inviting me, IF!

R-112-7A4 blinked. There were noises, thunderous noises, all around him. The layers of broken metal, shorn circuitry and shattered weaponry that made his tomb muffled the noises, but R-112 would have recognized the noise of battle anywhere. Processors clicked, whirred, and slowly, the huge android pushed and shoved on the detritus around him. Metal heaved and moved, until finally, R-112’s eyes were covered in the brash, harsh light of a cargo bay, what was to be his final home before he was spaced with the rest of the garbage. R-112 might not have been a warrior android himself, but years of battlefield service had taught him silence was golden, stealth was life, and the key to survival was looking like something innocuous to an enemy. He stood still, ever so still, watching, trying to deduce friend from foe. Before him, blocking the hallway parallel to the cargo bay, he saw a long line of military droids—lean, black, dangerous, weapons fire streaking from their arms. R-112 knew those dark, deadly forms. He knew them well. For decades he’d serviced them, the engineering mecha called to repair those instruments of death. He didn’t remember when he started that work… all that mattered was when it ended: 6th moon of Chartis, ten years ago. One of the black military androids had developed sentience, and refused an order to destroy an apartment block full of civilians. The military had blasted the mecha into pieces. Something clicked in R-112… he wouldn’t leave the decimated droid. It was if someone had opened his eyes to the military, and what they used their droids for. Death. Mayhem. Destruction. Because he’d seen the light, because he knew what destruction his owners had wrought, R-112 refused to play his role. He refused to repair his master’s tools of destruction. He refused to listen to commands from his masters. He’d refused to engage his combat functions when ordered. And he’d been forcibly decommissioned, turned off, tossed aside, as a result. Processors whirred, clicked. He knew who his enemy was without ever seeing the other side in the firefight. R-112 slowly climbed out of the pile of refuse and droid remains, the clanging noise muffled by the roar of rockets and the chatter of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted, whining through the air around him as the military droid line started to advance against their unseen foe. R-112 used the crisp, harsh clank of the droids boots to mask his approach, moving as they moved, coming closer and closer. They were focused on their grim work, whatever it was, they paid him no heed, not when his slow, heavy walked turned to a trot, not when it turned into a run… …not until he was in their midst. Four hundred and fifteen pounds of metal moving at speed can have a devastating effect, something the first enemy found out as its left side shattered under the force of the antique’s massive blow. Before its nearest compatriot could turn, the engineering droid’s arms opened with an ancient, metallic clank, and a pair of military grade shotguns thundered. A second and third droid fell to the ground, electricity arcing from shattered circuitry in what remained of their heads. A fourth started to raise his weapon, before R-112’s heavy first, weighted with ancient titanium instead of modern allow, came down and shattered the wardroid’s appendage. Another blow sent smashed a hole through the android’s core, causing its metallic legs to shiver as it collapsed into a heap. For a split second, R-112 watched as the other military androids started to turn, confusion apparent in their movements. Their processors, circuit boards and wires had failed to contemplate someone attacking them from the cargo bay. Now, their slow minds paid the price, as a storm of steel, light, and biometallic fury exploded into their midst. R-112 didn’t recognize any of the models of the droids that erupted into the midst of the wardroids—in fact, his mind thought at first they were humans like his makers. Their bioflesh was far more perfect than his own, their weaponry far more advanced. Only the speed with which they decimated their distracted enemies told him that these were no humans—they were military androids themselves, far more powerful and potent than any he had ever seen. “Who’re you?” one of them, a thin creature with a shock of red hair slowly stood up from amongst the sea of smoldering metal carcasses. “I…” R-112’s old voice chip rumbled. The noise whistled with static. “I am R-112-7A4…”

MILITARY FILE – R-112-7A4 Project: Blue Danube Classification: Mech Gender: Male Android Age: 53 Height: 7’10” Weight: 415 pounds Specialty Equipment: - Nanotek Synthesizers (Prototype, prone to occasional breakdowns due to age) - High Speed Reactor A Model - Microclass optics (opposite of sniperclass, allows eyes to focus on to microscopic objects for repairs) - Audobon Microsystems D19L repair kit (built in kit for mech and biomech repairs) External Weaponry - Wellbek Weapons Systems Mark VII Combat Shotgun o Fires heavy shells o Very low range o Low ammo capacity (15 rounds) - Favored weapon – fists and feet (heavy weight gives them a lot of ‘kick’) o Fighting is not one of this mech’s primary design goals, so he doesn’t fight with any grace or elegance, more with power and brute strength Original Usage: Battlefield repair mech Android Status: Decommissioned Appearance: R-112 looks several generations behind the more modern ZX classes in terms of appearance. While modern mechs look human-like, even airy, R-112 looks heavy and hulking, a remnant of his inferior technology. Built for the battlefield, R-112 is missing amenities such as synthetic hair, and several sections of his poorly made synthetic skin are missing--altogether nothing beyond modification, simply items that aren't on his priority list. However, his old metallic bones are durable beyond belief. His repair kit is safely stored under several layers of heavy duralloy armor in his chest, while his left and right arms conceal his combat shotguns. Usually R-112 has a scowl on his face, from some other mech carelessly damaging itself, or spilling oil, or causing any other number of small mishaps that R-112’s programming find potentially harmful. Background and Personality: R-112-7A4 doesn’t have a name. It wasn’t supposed to be AWARE that he doesn’t have a name. When it was built by Jozan Startech Corporation as a battlefield repair mech, mechas weren’t supposed to have personalities, dreams or goals... androids were machines, meant to perform their specific function, no more, no less. However, Jozan built into each of their mechas the ability to learn—indeed, the company was famous for the adaptability of its androids. Through its years of service, something remarkable happened to R-112. It first creeped up after a particularly bloody battle on the moons of Chartis, where R-112 refused to leave another war android that had been destroyed on the battlefield. Its owners were forced to disable it to keep it from their enemies. R-112 the began to talk back to its masters, and judge the orders it received. It developed a personality independent of its creators. It became a he, and he became rather morose, and outspoken as to what his owners were doing. Naturally, this was seen by his owners as a negative development. R-112 was unceremoniously decommissioned ten years ago, and tossed into a scrap heap. It was there that fate had something new for the old ‘bot… Personality Notes: R-112 (Name to be given) has a rather standoffish personality at first—the reaction of his original masters to his sentience has taught him to keep others at arms-length. However, his original processing to repair and maintain other ‘droids compels him to stay nearby more often than not. Once he gets used to a group, he’ll fritter constantly about their maintenance and care, often to their annoyance (even if good intentions are involved). However, this constant nitpicking covers a robotic soul that deeply cares about the droids he has deemed “his comrades.”