AFFECTIONS
Written on July 11, 2023 (♋︎︎︎︎)
Mustadio moved smoothly through the tavern—a deliberate and mechanical step that did not allow Ramza time to ask how things went or Alicia time to giggle as she pushed by with cake. The heat coming off his pale face would show crimson; he did not want it to be seen.
He cut a path to the inn's backdoor, back arched back with the confidence of a man who belonged wherever he was walking. It was only when he arrived at the stables that he let his shoulders droop. Rafa's flighty hen fluttered backwards as he approached, black down floating away from her to cling to the great steel orb that lay nestled in the straw.
He was miserable. He was alone. He was 500,000 gil poorer.
He was going to work on the damned robot.
Worker 8, for all the ill auspices of their first meeting, little minded being worked upon. As Mustadio knocked about its shell, there was a soft purr as the blue veins of its circuitry flamed back to life. When it began to rouse itself, metal limbs unfurling like a chick come out of an egg, its demeanor seemed almost friendly.
"I await your command, Master!"
"Your right arm's grinding again," Mustadio said in a flat monotone. "Your command's to hold still until I get my spanners and some oil."
The black chocobo had crept back—just enough to betray her curiosity—by the time Mustadio had the machine's arm off. He sat by gently filing the mechanism, a steady scrape of steel against steel as he tried to smooth out new made imperfections.
"Must've been those bandits out by Germinas. Their swordsman knocked you about pretty good."
"Entity: Swordsman knocked me about badly, Master. It was not good."
"It was good for him."
"Given that he met with 1,257 units of sterilizing heat shortly after, I do not assess the action as desirable."
Mustadio, for the first time that day, smiled spontaneously—without any hope somebody might smile back.
"The lubrication in the right arm is now decreasing friction 1.23 times more than in the left arm. I fear this will lead to uneven coordination of upper body tasks."
"You can just say you'd like me to do the other."
There was the thrum of something setting itself into new motion. It's eyes flashed for a second. The chocobo—Mustadio thought he recalled now it had been named Primrose—took a step back.
"I'd like you to do the other, Master."
It's arms were lubricated to its satisfaction: a 0.16% difference so he'd been told. Mustadio had started to do a circuit test on the mysterious globes on its back, hoping it would actually be of some benefit and that nothing would explode. He thought, as he applied the multimeter to the presumable power nodes, that exploding wouldn't be the lowest point of the day. He and the machine had some rapport there anyway.
"I can't believe it." He clicked his tongue as the reading registered. "Were men prone to reverse wire hackjobs even when the Saint walked the earth?"
"It is not my place to question the designs of any Master, Master."
"I'd question any Master setting me up for a short circuit, but you're free to question me there."
The came a whir of heat from somewhere within its casing, as if some thoughtworks piece was spinning very hard to process the statement.
"Don't question me then. Take my word for it." He patted its side as it began to slow to a gentle hum.
"Might I ask why I am being provided with this much attention, Master?"
Its joints were all freshly cleaned and re-oiled. The reverse polarity orb was fixed and would be much safer in doing whatever it did. Its head had been polished, and it glittered in the cast off lantern light from the streets beyond them.
"I hadn't wanted to pay much attention to anyone else the rest of the day." Mustadio bit his inner lip as he tightened a plate screw. "I made a few miscalculations."
"I am VERY GOOD at calculations, Master!"
"I'm not sure you'd have a better read on her, friend." He picked up his emery cloth and began to work on a patch of rust on its chest. "It wasn't the sort of thing you'd be good at measuring."
"What was being measured, Master?"
Mustadio looked around a moment, uncertain as to whether he was comfortable answering even with only the birds to bear audience. He sighed.
"A woman's regard."
He noticed, now that they'd been together for a few hours, that it had begun to mimic some human mannerisms instinctively—that it waved its hand and turned its head with a conversational ease.
"—and this 'lipstick' was supposed to measure units of 'affection'?"
"It was supposed to convey units of mine, Eight. It's not something I think you would understand."
"Affection: a quality signifying emotional preference."
Mustadio nodded. He started to put his spanners away, folding them into their leather wrap in order of size.
"This would be conveyed by the exchange of the 'lipstick.'"
Another nod. He felt very foolish now but didn't want to cut it off.
"And lipstick may be defined as..."
"It's—uh—something a one puts on their lips to look... attractive. I really don't think I can explain."
"Can you specify the originating plant for the stick, Master?"
Everything was packed up. The robot was as worked over as it could be. It was almost past the hour when anybody at the inn would have cold meat left to feed a lodger.
"I hope you feel in better shape now. See you in the—"
Mustadio had not quite noticed that they had reached their hands out to one another as if to shake them—not until the machine reached past his to touch his face.
He grimaced as it traced a diesel slick circle over his lips.
"Very attractive, Master!"
Mustadio laughed through the taste of grease. Worker 8's eyes fired brighteremer.
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