#but my scifi geek art-tech prof said it was good and that he likes my dialogue. so

[ciriceart]

Through you have not been programmed to feel pain, the sight of your own shell fills you with a sense of malaise.  

The side panel housing cogs and breakers is wrenched apart to expose the facsimile of sinew and bone beneath. Wires thick and narrow hang limply from the side of your neck and the gash running lengthwise along your thorax and spill over your crumpled legs outstretched before you. Someone retches somewhere in the back of the garage. You do not turn your head to look. Instead you keep your central optic lens trained on the mechanic - rough hands with thick, short fingers caked in dust and grease. You do not need your HUD to tell you that this is a desert scrap collector.

You prepare yourself for the inevitability of being dismantled and separated by size and value. Instead, the mechanic scoots his rolling chair over to a large vat inside of what looks like a plastic cage. He presses a few buttons and whacks his palm against the side for good measure. Quicker than any manufacturer or government repair center you’ve been sent back to, the cheap little printer spits out numerous replicas of your missing or damaged pieces. They’re not up to code, obviously, having been manufactured by unlicensed software and materials. Still, you think you feel grateful. 

The mechanic dives into his work, consulting outdated developers manuals with pages crisp and yellowed, taping assets into place and rolling back in his chair to stare before soldering some into place and leaving other areas momentarily untouched. He mumbles all the while, as if narrating from a book. As if you don’t understand your own inner workings. And you don’t, at least not entirely, but the mechanic has no way of knowing this. You feel resentment for this, but begrudgingly, you sit still and listen to his lecture.  

Only occasionally is he interrupted by brief conversation with the other, who you can now see to have greasy, oilslick black hair to their shoulders, skin bluish and transparent around the extremities and their flat, moist facial features. You don’t know where they come from, and any attempt to access memory storage causes your hard drive to whir and click irritably at the base of your neck. The sound earns a cocked eyebrow from the mechanic, but little else. He reaches in with his wire cutters only for the thin tendrils connecting your legs to the motor in your middle to flex and flinch away. He hums thoughtfully while the person holding his toolbox lets out a low groan, three-fingered hands curling anxiously around the dented metal. After so many attempts to access memory storage are met with a metallic grinding and click, you decide to stop trying.  

“Yeah, the 6-HY’s were always a little twitchy,” the mechanic mumbles.  

“It looks like a person!”  

“It’s fine.”

You recognize something in his voice. His tone is firm, but never raises in volume. It isn't aggression. Reassurance?

“There ya go, bud,” the mechanic finally mutters as he screws the hammered-flat panel back into place. “Feel better?”  

You hold a hand to your throat, pressing a wire into place so that the two frayed ends meet.  

“I didn’t feel a thing.”  

The clipped, jittery voice startles both mechanic and assistant into dropping their tools with a curse and a yelp, respectively.  

“Did that... fix it? Is your voice box in there?”  

Immediately, the mechanic takes up his tool and lifts your arm to peer at the breaker with little regard for the hand still holding the wire to your speaker in place. Your voice cuts in and out with the unsteady connection, fuzz creeping in around the borders of your words as it emanates from your middle chest.  

“My voice box wasn’t broken. It would’ve been rude to interrupt.”  

The mechanic pauses and, after a side glance, lowers your arm. His brow furrows and eyes squint slightly, a gentle frown turning his features. Anger or confusion, you aren’t sure which. 

“How d’you feel about sticking around the garage for a little while? You know, to get your bearings.”