The Warren
The machine clicked and clacked as its batteries were recharged in the station so thoughtfully provided by the Techpriests. Lines of code danced about its optic as Opa powered down for a brief recharge and routine maintenance within the Warren's corridors. The clicking rose in tempo until it grew to a tinny hum, fresh power flowing through the wires and transistors beneath the android's metal shell. All the while, the torn standard of the riot bot's old unit sat upon its back and chest like a sort of poncho - the kind a cowboy might wear.
Opa made a note to rent cowboy movies. Maintenance could only take up so much spare time, and despite its skill with self-maintenance the robot was no handyman like Marcus or Thaddeus. The boy had taken a liking to it, and Opa found this most curious. Besides protection, it figured, Marcus could find much better friendship and utility with other Residents in the Apartment. Yet, somehow, the two were continuously drawn together, as though Demens himself had decreed it.
Its processor paused to file this away for safekeeping. Demens messing with the world for his own amusement was not to be taken lightly as a possible cosmology for this dimension, wherever this dimension actually was.
The streams of code vacated the screen as Opa's optics detected and alerted it to the incoming presence of Thaddeus, the imposing cyborg smoking a cigarette that was probably unsafe to have in the cramped hallways of the Warren.
Opa tilted up to address the elder cyborg and nodded at him, "Good morning. Mr. Usseio. I require. Assistance with. A matter concerning. The Confederation. But first. Repairs. My faceplate. And my shield. Were damaged in. The fighting. Can you take. A look?"
