#lapsumhominis

          well, zack supposes, this is what he gets for following questionable shirtless men who claim they have something ‘fun’ to show him. this is where curiosity gets you: stuck watching machines enthusiastically hump each other, with the odd feeling it’d be impolite to leave.            “that’s not like humans,” he asserts before thinking better of it. his very humanity insists he correct this. “well. sort of. they, uh, have the position right.” oh, no. stop talking. why are the machines doing that anyway? peering farther into their little area of the city, zack can make out cots and tarnished baby toys --- and a selection of dubious pornographic picture books. oh.           at his side, zack’s new friend seems fascinated --- bizarrely innocent in his questioning. zack fights the growing urge to bury his face in his hands. “procreation is, uh, how humans made new life. i --- don’t think machines can do that. they’re just... fucking.”                 ah, spoken like a true sex education teacher! 

no3 loudly: NO2′S SHADY,,,, BREAKING NEWS GUYS, HE’S GOT A SHADY FACE N SHADY HAIR

REPLY TO ALL THE THINGS,,,,, do it for the tragic androids

I ENCOURAGE THIS lskfdsxlgmc tease him. make him get real shouty, it’ll be fun

            “you shouldn’t say that. i was useless.” guilt rots within. is this all he’s good for? observing from the sidelines as everyone else is torn to chunks? no2 was lucky this time: the damage to his exterior is treatable and his vitals remain intact. no memory re-upload will be necessary. ( it is still a bitter ache to see him like this, to have watched him falter under heavy fire and swarming foes. ) no9 gently coaxes him to sit, supporting with one arm ‘round the waist.           “next time, i want to fight, too.” it’s a silly thought to entertain. his fragile shell was not constructed for battle. it is illogical, it defies his programming, and yet he wants to defend no2. “so that i can really be there for you.” 

          “HUH?!”           liability. bullshit! no2 can choke on his opinions. ( because they are merely that: opinions. he’s categorically incorrect. no3 is an attacker; every function geared for annihilation. these assholes have no clue what he can do. )  even damaged as he is by their numerous battles, he is far from defeated. his fractured arm is steady as it hefts his blade, balance unwieldy on battered legs.           “what makes you think you have the right to tell me that,” he grits out, shouldering roughly past no2. “just --- just quit griping and do something useful, will ya?! fight at my side.” pause, huff. “or run.”