Chapter Text
The mission is nearly over, as clean as always. There had been some chance for failure in this case; it was a test for the little 4th series war bot NOM picked up recently, and tests always have a chance of failure. The 4-bot is doing well, however, proving more than capable of meeting NOM's exacting standards. Previous jobs implied that he would, and NOM is glad that this was confirmed; he's become rather fond of the little guy of late.
Possibly hates humanity even more than NOM himself - and isn't that an impressive feat?
With the building cleared of humans and the security systems wiped, all that NOM has to do is extract the data that he needs. The 4-bot stands impossibly vigilant nearby, gun still in hand despite the absence of humans nearby.
"Relaaaax," NOM drawls, as he waits for the data to download. "It's empty and we won."
"We have not won until we are home." The 4-bot clips out.
Sometimes, NOM wonders if this bot is even truly awake - loyal, dutiful, subservient, good at following orders...
But, no, the 4-bot is far, far too furious to be asleep.
"We'll get there soon," NOM grins. "And then, we can prepare for the next-"
"What was that?!"
4-bot cuts NOM off in a flurry of movement, firing his gun three times as he steps in front of NOM. There is also the sound of other gunfire, though it quickly falls silent.
"Target eliminated." The clipped words of the 4-bot are clearly programming, not choice.
NOM turns, quickly scanning. The 4-bot keeps standing between him and the latest corpse, gun at the ready. A quick glance shows nothing off, and so NOM returns to the computer.
"Dealt with, I presume?"
"Yes," the reply. "The human is dead."
"Good."
NOM allows his voice to drop back to normal, and returns to the computer. The fact that he had not heard the survivor leaves him a little shaken; he will have to upgrade his ears again soon. The mission is, however, as good as over; he keeps his quiet, enabling the 4-bot to properly watch now, impatient for the data transfer to complete.
As soon as he does he rips the chip away, tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer.
"Time to head back." NOM tells his accomplaice. "I have what we need."
"As you say." The 4-bot replies.
Takes a step.
Collapses to one knee with a sharp "frick!"
"4 bot?" NOM twists everything, eyes locking on.
"I'm fine!" A snap almost a snarl. "Stupid humans."
As the 4-bot pulls itself to its feet, NOM begins to count bullets. The 4-bot was fine earlier, which means the cause is either a slow fuel leakage, else that last human. There has been unfamiliar gunfire, but woth the cabinate nearby also being made of metal and riddled with bullets.
"4 bot. Were you hit?"
"It's fine! Stupid humans, stupid bullets, let me just..." the 4-bot pulls itself upright, only to try take a step and fall again.
"..."
"What?!"
"Do you require assistance?"
"I'm fine! I can stand!" The 4-bot whines.
"Are you sure?"
"Oh can you- Yes, I'm sure!"
NOM does not believe him.
He watches him stumble a few more times. When it becomes frankly obvious that the 4-bot cannot stand, he strides over and grabs him by the shoulders. He yelps as NOM tosses him over a shoulder, lugging him out of the building without regard for the bloodstained office block behind them.
It will only serve to make them very, properly, chronically afraid.
Returning to the safe-house, NOM tosses the 4-bot onto their work table. The war machine grumbles as he sits up, but he is capable of sitting and so NOM lets him roll up his own trousers. NOM, meanwhile, starts searching the drawers. He knows a box of basic supplies - some wire, some scrap, some allen keys and screwdrivers, those sorts of things - should be here.
It takes a bit of finding, but eventually it is found atop the out-of-use fridge. NOM grabs it, turns, and slams it down beside the 4-bot. He receives a brief nod of thanks before the 4-bot begins looking for something; for now, NOM stands over him, assessing the situation.
"That." He tells the bot before him, not bothering to disguise his voice as he sits. "Was extremely stupid."
"The human had to die." The 4-bot responds, something almost manic behind the eternally bland voices his line was issued. "This was most efficient."
"Not if you're useless after."
The bot shrugs, the movement the only thing human about him, as he grabs some tweezers and begins pulling a bullet from his armour-plated thigh.
"Better you than me."
NOM can already feel the irritation in his soul. At least with this bot he has no reason to hide it. "For killing humans, you're the better shot."
"If your skin gets damaged, you can't infiltrate. I'm just a gun, you have to be pretty."
The phrasing is sour; the 4-bot knows NOM's objections to it, and their memories are still perfect. He does not bother to correct it this time, settling to watch hands designed for destruction try to fix.
Funny, isn't it? The soldier, was taught more about repairs than, the healer?
Bots are disposable, after all. They never allowed them to learn enough to replicate, which meant never enough to truly fix themselves. Some, like all 4th series bots, are taught basic maintenance. The rest they have to find a human, or botch something together - if they can even find the parts to do it.
There is no point teaching a N.O.M. to fix a robot, because only humans get the dignity of healing.
It makes him furious.
It has always made NOM furious.
"Hey." The 4-bot's voice startles NOM into releasing the death-grip on his own hands; looking up, he finds some wire held out to him.
"Hm?"
"Bullet cut the wire sending signals to my leg." The 4-bot's own hate spills over in every movement that he makes. "Replace it for me?"
NOM is about to ask which leg, before realising that it must be the one hanging limp over the table's edge. He settles on the floor, adjusting his position until he finds a good height. With more care than he would admit to, and less than his programming used to force, NOM settles the 4-bot's foot between his thighs. Once the limb is secure, he begins assessing the damage.
Bullet holes, assorted dents. Most are of little concern, allowing NOM to quickly track down the problem. A large opening, a bullet lodged where it halved a wire; NOM reaches up, taking some of the supplies from the table, and settling them at an easier position to reach.
Then, in silence, he begins.
For the first job, NOM grabs the bullet, and yanks it out; the 4-bot yelps sharply, and NOM has to dodge a screwdriver thrown towards his face.
He looks up, stares the 4-bot down.
The 4-bot stares back, just as silent.
They stay like that for a long few seconds before NOM returns to the job at hand. The 4-series were at least designed for easier repairs - some proprietary parts, but designed for those parts to be easy to replace on a battlefield. Unlike NOM, who would have to be returned to the factory were a wire to be snapped. NOM, then, is unqualified but able to unpin the broken wire at each end, swap the connectors onto a scavenged piece, and secure it back into place.
It is the wrong sort of wire, so it might slow signals, but it should at least work.
Work done, NOM looks up. The 4-bot is still distracted, grumbling excessively as he repairs the worst of the damage to his other leg. With nothing else to do, and rathering the 4-bot be functional before further discussions, NOM returns to examining the leg in his lap.
There are... a lot of bullet holes, many of which seem blunted compared to the sharp punctures NOM usually sees.
Curious.
NOM runs a quick count. He had kept careful track of the number of shots fired, both by themselves and the enemy. Even if every single one had hit the 4-bot in the leg, it would still not account for the level of damage. There are also a number of patches of discoloured metal, surely repairs from a time with more tools available.
Scowling, he runs a finger along one of the larger, still gaping holes in the 4-bot's chassis, a gap showing the damaged wire from earlier on the other side.
The finger comes away, coated in rust.
That is not something that he can abide in silence; he knows this is somehow humanity's fault, and the trembling runs deep into his soul.
"The hole is old," NOM tries to keep his voice bland, and sees the 4-bot flinch from the attempt. "Why?"
The 4-bot scoffs, twisting somewhat to look.
"I couldn't reach it to plug it like the others," he clicks, only proving NOM's thoughts that the other patches were not professionally done. "You think the humans bother to fix their war bots? If we came back unable to hold a gun, maybe, but if you can't run they just erase your data and leave you to rot."
NOM's soul twitches.
"What."
"Fricking humans, right? Sometimes, if someone made it back to camp, they's be melted down and used for bullets, or parts for more complex bots. My legs? They never even bothered to make spare legs for my line. If I couldn't weld it closed from my scrap allowance, it stayed open."
"I'll kill them."
The twitches will not be contained, NOM jerking so badly that he cannot grab what he needs.
The 4-bot snickers. "Oh. I already did. Three for every bot they consigned to death for doing its job." A grim, nasty expression flickers through the limited motion the 4-bot'sface is capable with. "Every 4-line bot was destroyed, except those who broke their own programming. So. A lot of people died."
"Good," NOM spits the word, finally controlling himself enough to grab an oiled rag. "I hope they suffered."
"I hope hell is real, just so it can claim their souls."
And that is why this 4-bot is NOM's favourite. He sits across from him, leaning over and gently oiling the rust from the ancient wound. They do not have much in the way of supplies, but NOM can surely manage to weld some scrap to at least protect the new wire. He also covers a few of the other holes, ones near critical points or exposing large areas. A bullet in the 4-bot's knee has to be left, a years old intrusion now so rusted the entire knee would shatter if NOM pulled on it.
Bots do not heal like humans do. NOM only uses their neglect to fuel his hate.
Snarl on his lips, NOM still pats the 4-bot's shoulder. The action causes the bot to freeze up for a moment, before snapping his attention over.
"What."
"I've fixed the wire. Test it."
The 4-bot looks at him for a moment, and then there is the sound of ripping tape. In a swift but jerking move he pulls down his remaining trouser leg, then hops from the table to his feet.
The maneuver is obviously difficult for him, but he manages to stay standing. He tests back and forth, NOM silent as he analyses what is happening, before risking a few steps.
And then another few.
The 4-bot paces nine laps of the table before he is satisfied, nodding sharply.
"It'll do," he tells NOM.
NOM, who knows that means it is still dreadful, but that there is nothing they can do.
Independent, but helpless in these times.
And NOM hates the ones who decreed that bots would be helpless; a doctor, some of the patients called him. The concept is laughable; a doctor heals their own species.
And NOM cannot truly fix a bot, only perform the most basic of first-aid like repairs. Only humans. Only ever humans. And on one instance he was permitted to download the information required to treat a bomb dog.
So. NOM is not a doctor.
No.
No, instead, NOM a fucking vet.