Work Text:
Your surprise encounter with the robot doesn't leave your mind.
A week passes, and you've finished fixing an electrical error in someone's house.
Even after a month passes, after new clients and problems come and go like wind, you still ponder the circumstances of your visitor.
The shirt you wore while repairing that machine is still stained with oil, and the trail it left dried down against your floor. If you didn't have its blood permanently stained into the floor, you probably would have written off the moment as some weirdly vivid daydream.
Regardless, you don't tell anyone about what happened.
Three more months pass, the bland chaos of a new year and a long, viciously cold winter coming at you with the speed that makes it hard to focus on anything at all. Fresh snow powders the area outside of your house, and it's expectantly cold when you open up your garage in search of a part to fix your heater with. It's even colder when you step barefoot onto the concrete, walking past the now permanent mark of your visitor to grab the part.
Then, a distinct, radiating warmth. Like something moved to stand just behind you without invading your personal space. You nearly jump out of your skin and send your fist flying into a steel wall, wrist being caught roughly by a machine. In response to your act of violence, the chamber of a very familiar weapon is aimed directly at your face.
["It is within your interest to be nonviolent for the remainder of this interaction."]
The machine's voice is just as blunt and commanding as you remembered it being. You can feel your skin begin to bruise, so you pull away from the robot and rub your wrist to soothe the ache.
The rocket launcher remains fixed onto your position, feeling like a petty glare rather than a threat. You glare back, crossing your arms expectantly. It's then that you catch a small trail of smoke leaving through one of the vents on it. Looks like something is broken again.
"Is this gonna be a recurring thing?" You ask, motioning between yourself and the robot, "Because if it is, you're gonna have to pay up. I told you you could come back if you had the correct part, not for me to fix any brand new problems you caused for yourself."
It doesn't react graciously to your complaint, grabbing your arm and pulling you straight towards it— your face pressed directly against the barrel of the launcher hoisted upon its shoulders, engine heat radiating just below your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation for your brain (and house) to be scattered.
["It is clear you have misunderstood the nature of this arrangement."] It says, mechanical voice sharp, ["You will repair what needs to be fixed, and I allow you to live in exchange. That is your payment."]
And then it lets you go.
You let out a quiet breath (less relief than irritation) and cross your arms again, glare sharpened through the fear for your life.
"Fine. What'd you break?"
It takes a seat on the stool you haven't moved, and removes the plating on its abdomen with a click.
"Jesus." You sigh, "What the fuck did you do to your coolant reservoir? Detonate a bomb inside of it?"
As brash as you sound, it looks like the tank decided to give its best impression of a pressure bomb inside of this damned machine's chest, and now bits of plastic shrapnel are melting against the overheating internals. You're not even sure you have a tank that could fit inside of such a small cavity.
... How are you even gonna get in there without getting a billionth degree burn?
Considering the weather... Having this thing go roll in the snow for a bit could be an option—but then everything would be wet, and it's not a very sustainable solution since the engine appears to be electric. It'd be a bad idea to accelerate any rusting, and this isn't a very strong engine to start with so something would probably crack as well from the sudden temperature change.
You sigh and motion for the robot to wait, circling behind your car to grab an old heavy-duty fan you use on days where the sun asks your garage to do its best impression of hell. It takes a moment for you to wrestle it out in front of the machine, and an even longer moment to untangle the cord from itself for you to plug it in.
After a moment of perilous untangling, you get the cord just long enough to plug into the wall without any issues. The fan itself kicks on with a frightening stutter, before blasting air at your valued client with enough force to make it lean back just a bit.
"You gotta cool off before I even think about stickin' my hand in there. I'd recommend blasting your internal fans also, since it looks like you got em." You say, leaning against your work desk, "Tell me when your temperature isn't flesh-melting."
It takes an hour, about as long as you expected. Once its temperature starts becoming acceptable enough for you to put your hand in, you start looking into your collection of unusual parts you couldn't find a use for.
The search is typically fruitless. You never really have a use for any of the odd parts you hoard like treasures, but you can't bear to toss any of them out, as most things you hoard either don't get manufactured anymore or are extremely expensive to buy. Not only are you an extremely frugal person, but even with a job that pays well it's just a pain in the ass to spend $600 on shipping for a part that's the size of your hand.
You're about ready to gleefully tell this war machine you've got nothing to replace the destroyed part with, but right as you open your mouth to kick it out, you spot it.
Just barely peeking out from behind the rest of the backwash you collect, covered in dirt and dust from sitting and waiting for its moment to shine. A disappointed sigh escapes you as you reach back beyond the bullshit to grab it, inspecting the canister with a distasteful glare.
It's not an uncommon part by any means. In fact, the origin of it makes you hold in a slight snicker.
You return to your ungrateful visitor with the tank in hand, kneeling slightly in front of the robot to look at the shape of what remains of the prior tank.
It's the exact same, down to the small notch on the inner curve of one side.
"Well you're lucky enough to have the exact same parts as a forklift," The chuckle escapes you involuntarily, "Seriously lucky. These things aren't rare or anythin', it's just a pain in the ass to get."
The robot doesn't acknowledge you.
With a slightly disappointed sigh, you go ahead and take out the exploded surge tank with some mild struggle, eventually managing to tear it out of the cavity cleanly. You attempt to pick off as much melted plastic from the internals as you can, carefully avoiding any parts covered in hazard lines, and begin your work on installing the replacement.
Around a quarter of the way or so through the replacement, you realize this is going to be a lot harder than you thought, so you attempt to make small talk. Even if your bedside manner needs a bit of work.
"Come through town much?" You ask.
It doesn't seem to want to engage in conversation, but after a moment it decides to "humor" you.
["No."]
"Visitin' a lover?"
["You know why I am here."]
You resist the sudden infuriated impulse to rip all of the wires out of this thing's body and sell its parts on Ebay, but you control the rage and direct it towards tightening a screw.
"Can ya at least pretend you don't wanna kill me?"
["It is not within my discretion to 'want'. I am simply doing what I was programmed to do."]
Huh.
You slow your repairs down a bit, looking up at Ruby Red here with a bit of intrigue. In response to your suddenly slowed pace, it nudges you with the barrel of the rocket launcher now rested upon its forearm. You get the memo.
"It'd help if I could at least get a name out of ya..." You mutter.
You should know better than to speak to yourself around something holding you at gunpoint though.
["I am not named. I am only referred to with a serial number."] It says, shifting slightly when you dig your finger into a valve to pry it open.
"And what could that be?"
["K_01000100."]
What a mouthful.
You chuckle dryly, confidently wrangling a connective pipe out from its backwards position to connect it against the tank.
"What did they make you for?"
["They wanted to make something that could protect civilians."]
You attach it to a spot on the radiator, the hose limp with a lack of coolant. You raise an eyebrow in thought as you assemble the rest at an unremarkable pace.
"Like a bodyguard?"
["That is an adequate comparison."]
You twist the tank into its rightful spot, snug and secure. A satisfied look plasters your face.
"So what went wrong?"
["You will not be continuing this conversation."]
You sigh and swear under your breath, not wanting to push your luck with the armed machine pointing its gun at your head. "Saved by the bell. There's some antifreeze on a shelf over yonder for you to use if you wanna replace what you lost, just be sure not to overfill or next time you're gonna have to rob a forklift company for me."
["Your service is acknowledged."]
It leaves without replacing the lost coolant.
You're left with more questions than you started with, and you still have to fix your heater. The cold becomes irritatingly prominent the moment you remember why you even entered this part of your house in the first place.
"... Damn machine.”