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C1-10P flickered to life. Its single optic swung lazily around, sending a shaft of light outwards. It bounced dully off dust-covered machinery and half-constructed droids still posed awaiting activation.
C1-10P's still-booting logic functions began to whir, but before it could arrive at a conclusion the astromech's attention was diverted by a pair of hands clamping on either side of its dome, and a face appearing in front of it.
Its object recognition software kicked in, scanning the face. Human, male, lines and weathering suggesting he was in his thirties. A snake tattoo curled around one side of the face, fangs framing one of his eager, desperate eyes.
He spoke, and C1-10P diverted its processing power to the words.
"Hey there, little guy. Listen, um…" The man swallowed. "I need your help, all right?
Objective assigned: Help.
Affirmative, the droid warbled in binary.
"Great." The human sagged to his knees, glancing over his shoulder. "There's an elevator not far from here, but this whole factory's been deactivated for months. Think you can turn it on?"
Affirmative.
The human clapped a hand on his dome. "Great. We're gonna get along just fine."
On the way to the elevator, C1-10P learned several things. First, it learned the human was not at full motor capacity. He dragged one leg behind him, and stopped frequently to hiss and mutter long strings of words that were not in C1-10P's dictionary. It dutifully added them.
Second, it learned that the incomplete droids were not restricted to the conveyor belts. Dozens of unfamiliar machines lay scattered on the floor in various states of disrepair. Some were missing heads or limbs, while others appeared to have had vital components removed via blasts of superheated plasma. C1-10P noted this as an effective method of dismantling such droids.
Finally, it learned that this disposal method was not limited to droids. In amongst the machines lay deactivated humans. Its logic processor began whirring again, noting the similarity between the orange-marked armor they sported and the gear of its companion.
Before it could present its theory, they reached the elevator terminal. The human leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He gestured to a port beside the door. "Think you can fire this thing up?"
C1-10P's optic swung to the device. It wasn't sure exactly how much power was required to reboot such a system, or what the consequences would be, but the directive 'Help' was still generating a pleasant buzz in the vicinity of its main core. With a confident beep, it connected to the elevator and began a power transfer.
The last thing its sensors registered before the surge of power from the factory fried its audiovisual circuits was a long litany of those unfamiliar words.
When C1-10P finally rebooted, circuits still spinning with surprise, it discovered it had even more to learn. For one thing, the human had a name: Wildfire. He was part of the clone division under General Che'nor, with the Grand Army of the Republic.
These phrases stirred subfunctions within C1-10P – or C1, and Wildfire insisted on calling it. The clone speculated aloud about the droid's origins, how the factory's power had been bombed out at the beginning of the war, how it must have been completed, but never activated. C1 burbled a half-attentive comment, watching his quick deft hands as he finished repairing its fried lighting display. The soldier sat back on his heels, giving the droid a pat on the dome. "There you go, C1. We survivors gotta stick together."
Wildfire was a mechanic, the last survivor of his squadron, and a recent transfer to General Che'nor's division. He laughed too loudly at his own jokes, but immediately prickled when someone else questioned his decisions – or his droid. He was proud and short-tempered and a little selfish.
C1 decided he was perfect.
While the other soldiers separated into consistent groups around the long mess hall, Wildfire sat alone at the corner table. C1 noted that during these times, the human's temperature would drop, indicating a negative emotional state. Occasionally one of the others would try to join him, but a snappy comment or glare quickly chased them away.
Objective assigned: Help.
C1 scanned the room, collecting and categorizing the behavior of the other men. Their temperatures were elevated and most of them displayed positive facial expressions. C1's processors whirred as it formulated a new protocol. It nudged Wildfire's leg. The clone leaned down and patted him. "Hey, C1."
A second nudge, more insistent. Now the man glanced down, brow furrowing.
What a day, huh? C1 chirped in binary. It waited for the phrase to have the desired effect. Wildfire's frown deepened.
C1 whirred uncertainly. According to its calculations, this was a socially acceptable way to start a mealtime conversation. It tried again. What a day, huh?
Wildfire glanced around. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
The astromech ground its gears in frustration. Maybe the problem was its delivery? It adjusted its optic, running calculations to determine the perfect emphasis for the string of beeps.
Before it could begin, a heavy boot clanged against its side, sending it clattering against the table. Wildfire shot halfway to his feet, snarling at the offending trooper. "Hey, watch where you're going, you kriffing moof-milker!"
C1's dome spun, circuits jangling as it tried to orient itself. As Wildfire sank back into his seat, the practiced phrase erupted out, not in twittering binary, but in its fried processor's best, garbled attempt at Basic.
"What a day, huh?"
Wildfire muttered something under his breath, gaze tracking the other trooper. Suddenly his eyes widened and he glanced down at the droid. "Wait. Did you just… talk?"
Affirmative, C1 beeped.
"No, but like, talk!"
Affirmative.
The soldier moved from his chair, crouching down next to the astromech. "Can you do it again?"
"What a day, huh?"
The clone put his hands behind his head, letting gout a long, slow whistle. "Kriff."
C1 scanned its human again – the protocol seemed to be working. Wildfire's core temperature had risen by .03 degrees. It only seemed appropriate to continue testing the theory.
"Kriff!"
A bark of laughter resounded through the mess hall, and C1's circuits hummed with pleasure.
Mission accomplished.