Dirk was used to robots with impassive, blank faces. Brobot had been a near replica of himself, but it wasn't like the robot had been designed with emotions or the capacity for emotions in mind. It's a different playing field working on an android.
Yet it's familiar enough. For a few minutes, he just stares and comprehends everything that he is looking at. It actually makes sense. The flow of machinery mimicking that of the human body, doing essentially the same things but with different make-up. He feels an inappropriate burst of envy in his gut, his gut that was decidedly flesh and blood. When he was young, he used to imagine his insides looking something like this. Practical, neat, contained and designed with absolute intention.
It had been easier to picture some robot's arms putting his body together in an assembly line than it was to fabricate some bean-like creature growing arms and legs and an entire nervous system.
"It is," he says after a moment, "Except it's a lot better looking. Less wet." And it looked like everything really was working. He moves closer and lightly begins to touch one thing or another.
"Looks like our blood pumps the same for the most part," he says, realizing he should probably be talking about what he's seeing. He moves a finger over one of those arteries, curious, but careful.
Now that he's more comfortable with the surrealism, he starts to properly assess.
"There are some parts that look like they could be cleaned up. Maybe tightened up. It makes sense. Everything is well-contained and protected by external forces. Did you ever feel like anything got loose inside of you while fighting?" He doubts it, but it's worth asking.
cw: robot guts, human guts, body dysphoria
Yet it's familiar enough. For a few minutes, he just stares and comprehends everything that he is looking at. It actually makes sense. The flow of machinery mimicking that of the human body, doing essentially the same things but with different make-up. He feels an inappropriate burst of envy in his gut, his gut that was decidedly flesh and blood. When he was young, he used to imagine his insides looking something like this. Practical, neat, contained and designed with absolute intention.
It had been easier to picture some robot's arms putting his body together in an assembly line than it was to fabricate some bean-like creature growing arms and legs and an entire nervous system.
"It is," he says after a moment, "Except it's a lot better looking. Less wet." And it looked like everything really was working. He moves closer and lightly begins to touch one thing or another.
"Looks like our blood pumps the same for the most part," he says, realizing he should probably be talking about what he's seeing. He moves a finger over one of those arteries, curious, but careful.
Now that he's more comfortable with the surrealism, he starts to properly assess.
"There are some parts that look like they could be cleaned up. Maybe tightened up. It makes sense. Everything is well-contained and protected by external forces. Did you ever feel like anything got loose inside of you while fighting?" He doubts it, but it's worth asking.