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“WAC,” Neyo says. Deliberately. The ck skips in his throat, fading into the air with the soft hostility of a well-calculated threat.
“Commander, I have major objections to CT-9371’s illogical insistence to using purple paint. Our legion’s color is red . It would clash horribly . Besides, the 187th’s recent embarrassment in the spotchka incident - ”
“WAC.”
“Yes, commander, but - ”
“WAC ,” Neyo says again, and tests each letter as thoroughly as this obstinate scrap heap is testing his patience. “ Fiko is perfectly capable of making his own armor-painting decisions.” He does not disagree completely with WAC’s point - purple and red would, in fact, clash horribly - but the kid is as traumatized as any of them, and if it makes him happy, it’s Hale’s problem.
“But it would interfere with the group’s color cohesiveness - and General Gallia says that it contributes to a constructive sense of positive morale - ”
“WAC, report to the hangar bay and check up on the damaged bombers from last rotation.”
WAC’s faceplate recoils. “ Fine .” He rotates his nose like a scoff, and turns abruptly in the other direction, nearly colliding with Neyo’s shin. “But do not blame me when the legion suffers a preventable loss of esprit du corps.”
The door shuts behind him, saving Neyo from informing WAC, in an equally irritated tone, that the 91st Recon Corps encompasses four legions, and technically General Gallia still owes him a promotion to Marshal Commander.
Not that either of them would care. WAC would blame it on his programming glitch, or come up with an equally preposterous rebuttal, and they would eventually settle into being mutually prickly. It’s a reflex, now - the sardonic dichotomy is as nearly ingrained as good posture.
“Do you have any idea how aggravating you are?” Neyo asks, on the way back to his quarters. It’s after a particularly dry meeting with the admirals, but he does not mean it as a quip. The question comes out flat.
“No.” WAC pauses his skipping down the hallway, and his flailing arms smash into the nearest doorframe. “I am a droid.”
Untroubled, he turns the corner to the Commander’s quarters, and Neyo follows without bothering to walk faster. The door slides closed behind him, and he beelines for his datapad and the tiny kitchenette. He still has a couple of caf rations and a pile of flimsiwork to get through.
WAC putters around, apparently averse to standing still, looking for something to do. “Commander, do you think I am aggravating?”
Neyo sighs. Self-reflection from a droid. “I think you’re a pest.”
“Well. I think that you ,” WAC says, primly, “are emotionally unavailable.”
Neyo snorts. “Thanks.” The hot water beeps, and he rips the top of the caf packet open like a reply.
“You do not think that you can change?”
“Why would I want to?” Neyo tips the burnt brown grains into the steaming water, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The GAR instant caf is trash, but it’s better than nothing. “You don’t seem to either.”
“You programmed me,” WAC says helpfully. He tilts his head, oddly calm. Maybe he’s low on battery.
“So?”
“If you think I am aggravating ,” he points out, “you could simply reprogram me.”
He could. It’s tempting, sometimes - WAC can be a gadfly. But Neyo elects to ignore him, in favor of taking the first sip of his caf.
WAC can be a gadfly, can complain about paint colors, can be a right little pain in the shebs . Yes, Neyo could reprogram him - erase his obnoxiousness, undo his damage, wipe him clean as a blank slate. But WAC is WAC, for better or worse.
And so they both know he will not.