Work Text:
"For the last time, if we are meant to be working together , it is imperative that I have some form of documentation for a baseline of your function," she grits through her teeth.
They've been arguing for the past –a pause to glance at the clock over the R-7000's shoulder– thirty minutes now. Forgive her if her tone is getting a little tight. Talon always seems to ally itself with the most stubborn of sorts, and it’s beginning to grate on Moira’s nerves.
“Forgive me, doctor, if I am a little wary,” the omnic says, arms crossed. A moment passes. “Fine,” comes the surprising acquiescence, “But make it quick.”
Finally. A litany of colourful words run through her head, but she makes quick work of setting up the medical examination table for the massive bot to lie upon. It always feels a little silly, running medical procedures on a robot, but Moira is nothing if not pragmatic. At least it will be interesting to delve into a different model of omnic.
Once he gets situated on the table, Moira gets to work, peeling back armoured layers with permission, making diligent notes about his inner mechanisms, wiring, and design, just as much for future repair necessity as it is for personal curiosity. An R-7000, bane of human existence, on her examination table. There’s all sorts of things she’d love to pick apart, though she refrains from mentioning them aloud.
A time or two, Moira’s hands ‘accidentally’ delve just a little too deep, into places she’s curious about, testing the limits of which Ramattra will allow. Aside from a simulated grumble, he makes no effort to stop her. While it’s tempting to go further, she knows not to test fate. Back to the safe ‘neutrality’ of his external components, up towards the interesting little cosmetic cables on his head. How are those attached? What function do they serve? Despite the lack of eyeballs, she can feel his gaze following her as she moves to the head of the table.
“And what are these for?” Moira wonders aloud, combing her fingers through them, looking for connection points.
“Aesthetics,” Ramattra says simply, “Among other things.”
“Hm.” There’s more to it, but she’ll learn it in time. “And… this one?” Her fingers brush over a stray red wire in the bunch. “It’s lesser quality than the rest, and looks rather brittle, if you ask me. That can’t be useful for your purposes. I’m sure I can get that replaced–”
In a split second, Ramattra’s sat up, and her wrist is held painfully in one of his massive fists.
Curious.
“Absolutely not,” Ramattra spits.
“I reckon I’ve struck a nerve,” Moira observes, a placid look on her face.
“We are finished here,” Ramattra says. Moments later, he’s gone.
Moira stands in the now empty room, looking over the data she’s gathered. She won’t press for an explanation, as intriguing as one might be. Akande always did manage to find the most capricious people to ally with.