Ohmygod--, quit it! [ Derek prods and Stiles' knee snaps up, and sure enough, he bangs it into the table. ] --Ow, fuck!
[ Pain receptors too, apparently. Groaning a little, the android looks over his shoulder and shoots Derek a look, muttering about how he's not sure if he wants him banging around where he can't see it, and rubs his knee with one hand, trying to relieve the sting that came from the bump. God only know who built him with pain receptors, but he wants to kick them in the knee, see how they'd like it. If only he knew.
A heavy sigh escapes him, and Stiles leans forward a little more, dropping his shoulders down and looking back ahead of him, surveying Derek's tables and zooming his gaze in on his computer screen, trying to read it while he works. ] Why it's ex. Most people who get in that don't get out, right?
I told you to watch your knee. [ Derek figures that's revenge enough for the sour comment, and the wonders why the hell someone built a droid with external pain receptors. This is ridiculous, like they were trying to exactly replicate a human with a machine. Pleasure receptors he's used to, even if they're... really sort of mundane in comparison to the actual nerves and senses that humans have, and kind of ridiculously skeevy to him personally. But this...
Moving on from the tickling, he starts working on figuring out those pain receptors, since he's been given a new task to focus on with that. Now he definitely wants to get his sense of touch at least dampened before he starts really digging around. ]
People died, and I got the hell out. [ There's a bitterness there, somewhere in his voice, but he doesn't expand upon it. Just keeps working, finding Stiles' insides that're newly fried from being put online. ] It was easier to stay off the radar once the Argent regime got competition with Alpha Corp.
Gee, thanks for your concern. Jackass. [ The sass is strong in this one. Either way, he rolls his eyes, drops his head and heaves a sigh. He's not sure how many individualized sensations he has, and a part of him wants to test it out, and a hand comes out to feel the cool metal of the work bench, the tools in front of him. Everything has a sensation, and when he looks at his own hands, there's a fingerprint there, surely unique.
It doesn't really add up. If Stiles didn't know better, didn't have auto-enhancing vision, senses, a unique weaponry attachment--rocket fists, definitely--an intensive memory bank and all of the standard market abilities of a typical droid, he'd just think he was a human.
Curiosity flickers across his face, and he can't help looking backwards. ] Oh. I don't really know anything about that, dude, but that sucks big time. Or--I dunno, maybe it doesn't suck? Freelance, make your own hours, ten times less likely to be brutally assassinated for putting a spark plug in the wrong place...
[ There's the distinct temptation to locate his speech processor, but Derek just keeps his focus on actually important work. Even if it'd be blessedly quiet in comparison to the sassing that he's currently getting from an android that is more than blowing his mind. Besides, letting him talk gets him some interesting tidbits that give a little more insight about him and whoever might've made him.
Whoever might've made him had a poor sense of humor, or a cruel one. He's not sure which one yet.
Either way, this thing-- he's as human as a machine can get.
He looks up from under his brow and over his glasses at him, before scoffing softly and dropping his eyes back down. ] Something like that. People are still assassinated left and right just for breathing the same air as the big name businesses. [ He brings his hand up to put the end of his screwdriver at the corner of his mouth, muttering around it-- ] Brace, this might sting. [ -- before pulling out a chip. ]
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[ Pain receptors too, apparently. Groaning a little, the android looks over his shoulder and shoots Derek a look, muttering about how he's not sure if he wants him banging around where he can't see it, and rubs his knee with one hand, trying to relieve the sting that came from the bump. God only know who built him with pain receptors, but he wants to kick them in the knee, see how they'd like it.
If only he knew.A heavy sigh escapes him, and Stiles leans forward a little more, dropping his shoulders down and looking back ahead of him, surveying Derek's tables and zooming his gaze in on his computer screen, trying to read it while he works. ] Why it's ex. Most people who get in that don't get out, right?
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Moving on from the tickling, he starts working on figuring out those pain receptors, since he's been given a new task to focus on with that. Now he definitely wants to get his sense of touch at least dampened before he starts really digging around. ]
People died, and I got the hell out. [ There's a bitterness there, somewhere in his voice, but he doesn't expand upon it. Just keeps working, finding Stiles' insides that're newly fried from being put online. ] It was easier to stay off the radar once the Argent regime got competition with Alpha Corp.
no subject
It doesn't really add up. If Stiles didn't know better, didn't have auto-enhancing vision, senses, a unique weaponry attachment--rocket fists, definitely--an intensive memory bank and all of the standard market abilities of a typical droid, he'd just think he was a human.
Curiosity flickers across his face, and he can't help looking backwards. ] Oh. I don't really know anything about that, dude, but that sucks big time. Or--I dunno, maybe it doesn't suck? Freelance, make your own hours, ten times less likely to be brutally assassinated for putting a spark plug in the wrong place...
no subject
Whoever might've made him had a poor sense of humor, or a cruel one. He's not sure which one yet.
Either way, this thing-- he's as human as a machine can get.
He looks up from under his brow and over his glasses at him, before scoffing softly and dropping his eyes back down. ] Something like that. People are still assassinated left and right just for breathing the same air as the big name businesses. [ He brings his hand up to put the end of his screwdriver at the corner of his mouth, muttering around it-- ] Brace, this might sting. [ -- before pulling out a chip. ]