[open] if my anatomy had a chat with me,

[sloshing]

Who| HK-47 and YOU
What| Panem doesn't confuse him, his new equipment does. Manual dexterity fails. Food is weird, taste is weirder. Clothes are constricting. Why are the soles of feet so sensitive and fragile? The complaints could go on forever.
Where| Tribute tower: D10 floor, Training center
When| Today
Warnings/Notes| Body dysphoria. Will update as necessary.


D10 Floor

His body and mind are not fully synced up yet, present in the very slow crawl out of sleep mode in the morning. He's wrapped in a warm feeling, almost uncomfortably, so and he throws the blanket over him off. The cool air that touches his skin shocks him awake almost immediately. Hands on the bed, he shoves himself upright too quickly for his equilibrium to handle.

Good morning, and welcome to headacheland, HK-47.

Rudely awakened, he tries to blink away the stinging from his eyes (he'd rather have his optical sensors again, but he'd also rather have everything else from head to toe of his former chassis again). He's having a hard time that meatbags actually enjoy their existences so far, because the whole experience has been annoying, inconvenient, and varying forms if discomfort.

He moves to stand up, feet touching the carpet of his room. Feet are lifted off the floor. Nerves. High sensitivity on bottom of feet. He'd worn his socks and shoes all day yesterday, up to the moments before retiring for the evening. He was familiar with the usual concentration of nerve endings to certain areas of the body but he wasn't familiar with how that felt until now. He sets his feet back on the floor again and stands, taking in the small dip in the plushness of the carpet as his center of gravity moves.

With only a basic understanding that clothing is required to appear in public spaces and no sense of fashion, he just grabs whatever from his closet and dresses himself. There a bit of struggle with figuring out what goes where, dexterity rolls are failed, but eventually he's clothed in a manner that he gathers is acceptable and carries himself out to the kitchen. Overcompensating for the fluidity of movement that he's still unaccustomed to, his movements are very rigid.

His feet land on the cold tile and he stops. Completely still, he just stands there, staring at the counter and passing over who else might be there in the kitchen/dining area with little actual acknowledgement of their presence. Cold. He doesn't know how to cook. Cold. He doesn't know what's edible. Cold. He skipped eating last night so by logic he should eat now. Cold.

"Quandary: How am I supposed to live this way? How do meatbags do it?"

1. Comprehensive and literal answer.
2. [Light Side] Comprehensive and well-intentioned advice.
3. [Dark Side] Point and laugh.
4. Ignore and carry on with your own business.

Comments

[sloshing]

Nerves. Nerves were a thing he should take into account now when picking his battles. Since they were equal parts receptors of pain along with everything else. The pressure against his throat, while ultimately an educational experience, was definitely not making the list of Top Ten Things He Enjoys About Being A Meatbag, with the sensation of all the parts in his throat being pushed around and against each other.

Not the wisest decision he has ever made.

But the aggression does remind him of all the traits Revan had that were his favorites. So while most people would probably be terrified at this point, he actually... looks pretty happy considering the situation.

"Answer:" he starts, barely talking through the arm on his throat, "I am usually in the superior chassis of a droid, not a meatbag body like yourself."

[molotov]

She listens to this response, her brow knitting and her eye narrowing, confused and pissed off and not intent on letting this asshole get away with any of this.

"What does that even mean?" she growls, pressing her arm harder into his neck before letting up. "You're a robot? You don't feel like a robot. I cannot snap a robot's neck with just a few more pounds of pressure."

[sloshing]

There's a very reflexive wheeze in response to more pressure being applied, and it's at that point that he decides he's had enough of being in this position and makes an attempt at fighting back, tucking a hand under her arm to at least relieve some of the pressure on his throat.

"Reiteration: Usually." Usually if a human female was on top of him, he wouldn't be noticing how all the water content in the body actually makes a position like this sort of comfortable to be in, he would just be noticing that there was water through his optics. Information coming from too many places.

"Addendum: Whoever decided to bring me here must have thought it would be more entertaining if I was a meatbag like everyone else."

[molotov]

Molotov pushes back down against his hand for a beat, still scowling, then rises up to sit back on her haunches with an accusing glare.

"Maybe they did it to counter what an immediate asshole you are," she huffs, hands resting on her thighs before she smoothly stands up and off of him. She tugs at the sides of her shorts, where they've bunched up, and heads for the water bottle she was originally going for. "And by the way, you aren't a... meatbag like everyone else. My bag is a hell of a lot better-looking than yours, for one."

[sloshing]

Air has never been so wonderful as in this moment, drawing in a full breath as all the parts in his throat resituate to their proper places. Post-the event, there's a small thrill there in that he could have died but was still alive.

It takes a second for him to gather his breath and awareness between the small adrenaline rush, but once he's more present, he rises to his feet and follows her over to adopt a water bottle for his own as well. Something he'd once registered as distracting was now vital for his survival, a strange way the tables had turned. Oh, and he isn't bothered by the verbal assault at all, totally able to take what Molotov dishes out at him.

"Statement: I would have to agree, as my ego doesn't revolve around the appearance of my flesh or how it's shaped. I'm only concerned with understanding how it functions and if I can perform the tasks that I need to efficiently." He pops open his water bottle and takes a drink and wow water may be the best thing ever created. He drinks down half the bottle before stopping to take in another deep breath. "Continuation: Speaking of efficient, you're very good at what you do."

[molotov]

"My ego doesn't revolve around that either," she says, shooting him a nasty look and taking a sip of her water. "I was only stating a fact. Surely a robot can appreciate that."

As if appearances are something that boils down to matters of pure fact. 'I am amazingly gorgeous' is just a statement for her, not a boast or a compliment or anything of the sort.

She watches him drink like a fish, her face blank and maybe even bored. "Of course I am. I have been doing it for more than twenty years. You don't become the best mercenary in the world through luck."

[sloshing]

That nasty look just gets the closest facsimile of a cute smile that can come from him in return. From his experience, he knew that meatbags often had different likes and dislikes when it came to appearances, but perhaps there was enough data to back up that it was a fact.

He wasn't really that focused on her looks though, more interested in the aggressive mercenary that she was.

"Query: What sort of jobs did you do? Or is it very non-disclosure," he presses a finger to his lips, "sort of business?" Of all of Revan's companions, Canderous Ordo, a Mandalorian-turned-Mercenary and back again to Mandalorian leader had been the most tolerable and interesting company to have. Molotov's attitude was similar, and he could appreciate that.

[molotov]

"Classified is for the government, and besides, it isn't like my clients are here to be pissed off," she answers, waving her hand dismissively and hoisting herself up to take a seat on the table. "I do what I get paid to do. Assassinations, recon, item recovery, whatever. I am not that picky -- being picky is bad for business. The only thing I don't do is human smuggling. Too messy, and it's usually children. I don't like that."

Her legs are crossed and one waves back and forth idly, like they're discussing pizza topping rather than black ops.

[sloshing]

Black ops is more interesting than pizza toppings anyway.

He takes up a spot of his own, leaning against the table being the closest form of him following suit. While he doesn't necessarily have any sentiments regarding children specifically (there are a lot of troublesome kids in his galaxy okay), he understands the lack of appeal regarding smuggling. That was the one kind of person he always hoped to never end up serving, and so far the odds had been favorable in that regard. Politicians and crime lords have more straightforward tasks to fulfill.

"Request: I would be delighted if you would share your favorite mission. I would even share one of my own in return should you desire."

[molotov]

There's a sigh, and she raises her legs to fold them under herself, head cocking to the side as she thinks. There have been a lot of missions over the years.

"Why do you talk like that? You aren't a robot anymore, you can speak normally," she says, knitting her brow at him, then props an elbow on her knee to reminisce, her cheek on her fist. "Hm. Anything with my father, when I was still training. The panda recovery was sort of fun too, like a giant teddy bear. But my favorite... Paris in 1987. It wasn't a mission so much as an accidental encounter with an enemy agent."

Molotov sighs and looks a little dreamy.

"Amazing night."

[sloshing]

Ah, that word that people used to ostracize people for being different. "Normal." He does understand her point though, and while a couple times he had considered how his habit, which required no second thought before, was perhaps over-complicating things orally as a human.

"I know. It has been a natural function since my creation, but I will attempt to refrain for the remainder of this conversation," is his reply, an attempt at considering the wishes of his current conversational companion.

He can recognize that sort of look, one that he'd been met with rather frequently when Revan's companions became enamoured with him. A part him gags mentally, but another part is curious about what sort of details developed that night.

"It sounds exciting." Okay, he sounds a little forced but there's that part of him dreading some sort of love story.

[molotov]

The change in Molotov's face is immediate -- she suddenly looks angry, but on a more personally offended level than before, like maybe she has some tiny little feelings that got hurt by hearing his reaction to her mentioning literally the best night of her life.

"Fine, then I won't bore you anymore," she snaps, glaring, and produces a cigarette from... somewhere. It comes from somewhere, okay? No one knows where Molotov keeps them or how she manages to produce them seemingly from thin air. Maybe she's magic and she doesn't know it. But the point is that she lights her cigarette and furiously drags it down, looking away from him to watch the others training around them.

But really she's pouting.

[sloshing]

What is this instantaneous feeling in regard to her being upset?? Regret?? That he possibly offended her??

The last time he had to backpedal was back when Revan had forgotten who they were and sometimes found his attitudes or word choice objectionable. That was quite some time ago, but he does it so fast with Molotov.

"Clari--" Stop right there. "You're mistaken- I'm not bored!" Uh, how does he go about this... "As it's been established, there are certain habits that are hard to break, and previously I was very disinterested in the more base affiliations of human nature and the feelings that accompany them. However, since this memory is one that is very important to you, I would like to listen." His expression, should she look, is the home of an apology.

[molotov]

She glances at him from the corner of her eye, trying to see if he's lying to her just to appease her. She supposes that a robot wouldn't know how to put on a convincing expression of apology, wouldn't have that sort of control of his own new facial muscles and emotions.

There's a pause, then she puts out the remainder of her cigarette on the table. "Base affiliations and feelings are important," she huffs, more sulky than anything else. "They can be manipulated, used against people. It was Paris, in 1987. We were both training -- I do not know what he and his handler were doing, but Papa and I were following an enemy spy. Papa saw people on a rooftop, and he sent me to go investigate. That was when he and I saw each other."

She stops for some water.

"He chased me into a hotel room, we went in through the window from the roof. But he was young and stupid, and when he thought he was about to use me like one of his American whores, I stabbed him with my heels. Drugged him, I keep hallucinogen in the spikes. I pinned him to the bed with my sais, lorded it over him that I was better than he was, that he could never keep up. That he needed me."

Molotov sighs, and rests her cheek on her hand again.

"Then I set the room on fire and left him there. Threw him the butt of my cigarette when he whined. I guess his mentor saved him, though, because he didn't die like I wanted. Papa and I were gone by the time I found out he was still alive."