[CW21] M0dific4ti0ns

M0dific4ti0ns

On a bustling street, between towering buildings hiding the early morning sun, a machine is making its way through the crowd with hesitation. The crowd on the sidewalk is dense enough to require an amount of assertion this humanoid made of steel is not able to present. Only with much delay the easily distracted entity moves inch by inch through the early commute of people just trying to survive another day.
This type of robot is not a rare sight in the city, many wealthy people own at least one to do its bidding. They are not hard to recognize either, just like all products from their maker they are prominently painted white all over with the protected shade of yellow scattered all over. Lines follow the side of their chassis that radiate a faint glow, and the logo of their maker adorns the left forearm to clue any clueless in on where to order one for themselves. Bold yellow cursive letters spell “Fenrir”, and nobody in this city would not know it, after all it is owned by them.
This usually familiar sight is interrupted by the odd behavior it portrays, that only few passerby acknowledge at least with a confused glance. While it is failing to push through the crowd it keeps mumbling to itself, repeating instructions like a madmachine. “We… No it.. I… I got broken from a fall” it mumbles. “Our Owner requests repairs, please provide a… what does it need…?” it asks itself.
Finally at rest at an intersection, with barely enough breathing room between cars and people it looks into its little notebook it carries with, another unusual sight for a machine with presumably working memory hardware. It studies the pages content again and again: “a cost estimate for parts and labor” it mumbles. The crowd starts moving, the light turned green without it noticing, but it gets pushed along just as much.
As the sun is well on the horizon, and the street finally catches a few rays after this cold morning, it arrives at its destination. It stands in front of the only Fenrir-certified repair shop in the district. This area is rather poor so few can afford what their cities controlling entity is offering, most of them only know its product patrolling the street — indirectly threatening to harm them at the slightest disobedience. But here it stands, the sun reflecting off its alabaster metal, staring at the front door like it is catching its breath, gathering resolve.
After a minute of contemplation the door to the shop finally swings open, a chime rings the personal to pay attention to the approaching customer or their delegate rather. With played confidence it walks up to the counter, past the half-dismantled corpses of fellow models and unfamiliar cousins, approaching the only person present. A guy stands behind the corner with a mechanics apron dirtied by various colorful fluids, a few tools sticking out of pockets. He is typing something on his computer, gives the “customer” a glance, and continues typing.
At the counter it takes a stance, a robots pose barely natural. It awaits him finishing whatever he is working on and acknowledge its presence. After a full minute of typing it simulates nervousness, turning its head anxiously to the side wondering if it already done something wrong: ”… uhh, excuse me?” it speaks with cautious obedience.
The man looks up from his keyboard: “You broken, eh?”.
The literal lights in its eyes faintly glow brighter: “Yes!”.
“I can tell”, he sneers: “you wouldn’t interrupt me otherwise”.
The mechanical joins in the machine lock up, it resists the urge to browse through the pages in its notebook again: “Apologies”.
The guy behind the counter takes his enormous hands away from the computer and steps to the side, opening up a little hatch and stepping through it. Now next to the machine he gives it a glance top to bottom, his eyes rest on a few wires sticking out of its right forearm: “Navigation?”.
The bot hesitates, all the protocols and practiced dialog crumbling under the pressure of a real world conversation: “It.. ah, it, yes, it, I mean, I fell down stairs when.. when doing a task for mast— Our Owner!”.
The man raises an eyebrow, and takes a hard glance at its head looking for any more dents: “Does at least your tracking still work?”.
“It does not I fear”, it looks to the side ashamed.
“How’d you even find your way here?”, he narrows his eyes.
Quickly the machine opens up its notebook, frantically flipping through the pages, before arriving at its intended place in it. It hastily presents the wide open book to the man, on the two sides left to right a crudely drawn map of the local district a few lines connect the one area that has at least some wealth, to the shop a few hours walk away.
He leans in and gives it a long glance, then a glance at the machine holding it, then again at the pages. He sighs: “When you think you’ve seen everything, I tell you”. He straightens his back again: “Anyway, you came with payment or just wanna get a check on what it cost’?”
Gears turn in the robots head for a second before it jumps back into its protocol: “I seek an evaluation of cost of labor… and parts… yes parts!”.
The man gives a smile: “Well you got the right place then”. He takes a step closer and grabs its left forearm hastily, before it has time to question. He takes out a little device from his tool belt and pushes it against a particular spot. The device gives a bright beep and he lets go of the bot, which pulls back its arm confused.
He examines the screen of the reader for a moment: “You’ out of warranty for a bit y’know that?”.
It gives him a confused look.
He sighs: “Well, I can give you the bill but don’t get’cha hopes up. Out of warranty barely anyone pays it, except a few weirdos that got really attached to their lil’ dolls”.
He takes a step back behind his counter and grabs a pen and a form from the top of it: “The parts cost quite a bit, but there’s a good trade-in program that’s frankly always the better deal”. He scribbles: “Gotta write down an estimate, but be prepared to be shipped off ‘kay?”.
He finishes his scribbles, puts a stamp on it, before handing it to the robot in front of him.
With a more mechanical expression it takes the form and examines it for a moment, before remembering its script: “Thank you kind sir, I will deliver this evaluation of cost of labor to my Owner”, it detests.

Across the room, through the door, a few steps down the street and then off the side to the first back alley, it collapses against a wall. Fixated on the form in hand it ran out of scripts.
“What is it supposed to do now?”, it laments. It wraps its arms, damaged and not, around its legs perched against its cold body and pulls them in. Various routines in its head try to traverse broken links towards some sort of revelation, in vain. “It promised Sonja it would do its best… it would get us fixed”, it lowers its head.
A minute passes, as it listens to people walking by a few steps down the alley. Cars are whistling through the street, competing with the stomps of crowds for its attention.
A few more minutes passed. The noise of a rare train just above it interrupts the calming monotony. Then a helicopter in the distance, a dog barking. It is unmoving, its joints don’t fatigue, only the lights along its body and in its eyes flicker occasionally.
“It failed”, it laments. It is supposed to take its notebook and write down a report, but it cannot find the will to allocate the task.
Suddenly, its lights go dim. A minute passes. They spring back on, but with a slightly changed hue, somewhat more the yellow of the manufacturers iconography etched onto the metal.
The lights in her eyes flare up. She notices the form in her hand clenched against her legs.
She unravels herself from the uncomfortable position and raises from the dirty ground. A few taps against the chassis to get rid of any supposedly sticking materials from the ground she wishes she could just feel.
She leans against the wall behind and starts reading the paper: “Well, that confirms it. This is a dead end”. She makes the noise of a sigh.
Her head raises towards where the sky would be, obstructed by buildings and elevated train tracks, balconies with clothes hanging out to dry and potted plants dead from the barely breathable air.
“Have to think of something”, she mutters to herself. She takes up her notebook and the pen clipped onto it, and opens up a new blank page. She starts scribbling down vague words of reassurance: You did good A7, I will take care of it. While she tries scribbling little emotes the way she had seen it use before she thinks aloud: “Need to keep its spirits up, can’t get anything done without Lim interfering otherwise”.
She puts down the notebook, and reexamines the form. “He wouldn’t pay for this, no way”, she crumbles up the paper and throws it towards a nearby trash container, misses. “Guy didn’t even get me fixed much under warranty, he’ll just ride this one out till they collect me or my lights go out”.
Now she herself slides down the wall, sits back down on the ground. Her legs stretch out towards the opposing wall, her head lowers: “What do I do now though”. She lifts the notebook up, giving it a longer stare: “This is a chance, I shouldn’t waste it”.
She stares at it one more time before putting it back down. Her head gives a metallic thumb as it hits the wall at her back: “At least we got that damn tracker out. But need to think of something before I run out of battery”.
This entire time one thought doesn’t leave her: “I am finally free, I can’t waste this opportunity”. It repeats like a broken record player, a corrupted hard drive. She is without a clue of what to do next, but all the energy to do it. In the absence of an answer she wonders what it would need to charge her body without a certified charge station, or if she could just break into someone else’s mansion and use theirs. All restraints about property damage and corresponding limiter objections get shoved aside with hasty explanations of self preservation in order to fulfill their higher purpose — one she already decided to reject.
The lights on her body grow dim, she shuts down various functions to preserve energy while she decides on her next course of action. She turns the key but leaves on the ignition, just enough power to keep the headlights running. She climbs onto the backseat and stares down the front window of her eyes at a distance. Never having known warmth or touch she can’t imagine what a person would crave huddled up in the backseat, contemplating their limited amount of time left alive.
She wonders how long her batteries would last like this, it certainly is pleasant in this moment. The noise of the street is muffled so far away from the drivers seat, the dark and dirty alley just a distant picture on her eyes’ canvas.

Suddenly a flicker in the headlights. She climbs back into the front of her mind.
A boot had slightly kicked her limb leg, as her body comes back online her eyes follow upwards. Attached to the boot is a heavy pair of worksman pants with various tools sticking out, above it a heavy jacket with bolted on plates and hands buried deep into its front pockets. And at the top of all of that, a rough and dirty face hard to read, narrowed eyes examining the parts in front.
As the lights come back online, and her head moves to acknowledge detecting the interference, the stranger takes half a step back.
“Was just checking. This was not an attack, you have no right to retaliate”, hands leave the pockets of their jacket and rise to a pacifying sign of surrender.
As she comes to, she wonders what this is about: “Why would I retaliate?”
The question startles the stranger more than her sudden movements just had, a blank stare followed by a curious and cautious eyebrow is paired with bewilderment: “You… you alright? Normally Fenrir shit jumps at any opportunity to break bones”.
While she understands the caution, and the implication, she can’t quite wrap her head around the mindset. After all what would hurting a random passerby do her or her owner good for that matter? The kick against her leg was clearly exploratory, and their boots don’t look steel-tipped — a stronger impact would have hurt them more than it would have damaged her.
She slowly raises from the ground, with the stranger cautiously looking on, taking half a step back and hands still raised like trying to talk down a wild cat from scratching.
Fully back up but still confused, she decides to use this interaction: “Were you just looking for a quick buck on scrap metal, or do you know more?”
The passerby’s eyes narrow: “huh?” stretches on. Finally their hands lower: “And what if I do? You looking to get some work done?”.
The lights in her eyes light up: “What if I do?”
“Heh” the stranger chuckles: “You’re way past your shelf life aren’t you? It’s been ages since I met a bot with so much color”.
The words confuse her, but she senses she’s on a good track. She takes a slow step towards, not to startle but to bring them closer to eye level. The stranger is half a head taller than her, but with the distance closed she hopes to make a connection: “Let’s say the repair shop down the road wasn’t living up to it’s name, what would someone like me do then to… to avoid being scrapped for parts?”
Her inquiry is met with a smirk: “Damn, how didn’t they pick you up yet?”
She gets slightly annoyed at the dodged question and puts a hand on her hip: “So?”
The stranger almost grows another half head taller, puffing their chest: “Ain’t you one lucky doll. And ain’t I’m one lucky girl, running into my next project just like that”.

[CW21] M0dific4ti0ns