Roger Roger
B1 had many expectations upon reactivation.
It expected war.
It expected orders. Roger, roger.
It expected to be promoted.
It did not expect that its savior from the darkness would be a squatty little C1-Unit that could make an embarrassingly large number of credits running advertisements for bio-bag shampoo. As the battle droid sat trapped, servos locked, and dignity compromised, it watched the astromech twirl with no small amount of clanker envy. The droid's luscious locks flowed in the debris-filled air, catching the dim light of the ruined warehouse like some kind of holodrama heartthrob.
Were they from the Droiderette? Love at First Beep?
The C1, actually the C1-1347, according to the erratic binary beeps spewing from its not-so-evolved vocabulator, finally took notice that it wasn't alone. It beeped. It whistled. It regarded the battle droid with a wariness that the B1's sensors could only describe as "dramatically suspicious" but that also could have been a sign of constipation or systems backing up. Too many frivolous oil baths.
The astromech asked a question and B1 did its best to formulate the most efficient response.
"This unit arrived via unknown circumstances. Memory core out of alignment. Chronometer failure suggests significant time lapse."
Another question. More, dramatic suspicion.
"Clarification: This unit has no interest in obstructing your mission and has no interest in your beloved."
While it couldn't access its memory or most of its programming, the truth, was that the B1 at present had very little interest at all. At first, the C1 gave the crate a couple of experimental pokes, its tiny grabbers woefully inadequate for the task. The B1 tried to have optimism...But it didn't seem that things would be going well for this unit. Suddenly, it calculated that the C1-1347 had rolled back, recalibrated—
"Uhhh I am suddenly experiencing existential dread!"
—And the C1 launched itself like a small, angry missile. As though physics were a suggestion rather than a rule.
"Uh oh."
- CRACK -
The crate exploded. Wood fragments flew. The B1 found itself rolling backward in the aftermath, optics flickering wildly as it processed what had just occurred. Before much else could happen—Lubricant spray came flying out of nowhere. The B1 visibly relaxed as coolant misted over its servos and mobility returned. Knocking it around seemed to have jarred something back where it belonged because its memory core was suddenly back in place. Programs began to run and execute normally. "This is completely—"
It's vocabulator was different now. It sounded, feminine.
"This is completely against protocol."
The B1 reached down and picked up a fairly beat-up hat from the floor and put it on. Her head felt less empty now. She then looked down at the non-operating human and picked the blaster rifle up and clumsily shook the bloody jacket off the corpse. "My designation…it was…OOM-JELLYBEAN. Friends call me Jelly."
If the B1 had any friends. Memory and personality were still loading.
She assumed that she would blend right in with the human population now that she was dressed like one. Perhaps, that was the reason C1-1347 had hair. The request that the B1 tell tales of the bravery of the C1 unit was nonsensical, however. The expectation of admiration was illogical. But…She did owe the astromech unit for setting her free. "Acknowledged C1-1347, this unit will comply."
She took a moment to kick the dead soldier into the remains of the crate. They couldn't just…Leave it lying around in the open. Human kind tended to get a little uppity when a droid killed one of their own. There was a tarp nearby and the B1 dropped it over the body. Kicking in a hand that flopped out. Pale photoreceptors blinked. Humans, were so gross.
With a sigh—a static-filled, war-weary sigh—The battledroid took a step forward.
"Jelly is ready."
The mission for B.E.L.O.V.E.D. had begun.
