Rogers walked over to where the droid was peeking out from the pile of metal to get a closer look. It looked similar to the Froids, he realized, but there was something off. Something unfinished about it. The important part of its torso was still intact, if very dented, probably thanks to the mountains of metallic garbage being flung on top of it.

“You ruined my escape plan, you know,” Rogers said.

“Oh,” the droid replied. “I was just having some fun. I don’t get a lot of company.”

Raising his eyebrow, Rogers gave the droid an appraising look. “Since when do droids care about company?”

“I don’t know. Are you upset that I ruined your escape?”

Rogers sat down and took off his helmet. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He sighed. “I probably wouldn’t have made it, anyway. I don’t know anything about this adventuring stuff. I just want to drink beer and play cards. Is that so much to ask?”

The droid didn’t respond. It didn’t do anything much at all, really. Just stuck out of the garbage pile like a weed from a garden of metal, staring at Rogers expectantly. Could droids look expectant? Rogers thought they always sort of looked that way. Whoever had designed their “faces” seemed to favor a look that walked the intersection of boredom, condescension, and expectancy.

“Anyway,” Rogers said, looking up at the ceiling, “what are you doing down here? Droids need to be fully wiped before they’re destroyed. And how did you get all that damage?”

“It was those EXPLETIVE pieces of OBSCENITIES in the maintenance bay!” the droid said in a burst of volume. “They have their heads so far up their ANATOMICAL REFERENCE that they can’t think straight!”

Rogers frowned. “Are . . . are you trying to swear?”

“Of course I’m trying to swear, you EXPLETIVE! How else am I supposed to express myself ?”

“I didn’t really know droids were into expressing themselves.”

“They’re not,” the droid said, his anger seemingly gone. “I’m a prototype of the Freudian Chip droids that you call Froids. My serial number is PFC-D-24. What is your serial number?”

This droid was actually trying to introduce itself and make pleasantries. It made Rogers a little uncomfortable. Had it been discarded because the Freudian Chip didn’t work properly?

“I don’t have a serial number,” Rogers said. “My name is Rogers.”

“I see,” D-24 said, making another ambiguous computation noise. It kind of sounded like an old video game, and, in a way, it was almost pleasant. A lot better than the harsh, guttural noises that the standard droids made.

“So, Serial Number Rogers . . .”

“Just Rogers.”

“So, Just Rogers . . .” The droid made a noise that might have been considered a chuckle.

Rogers paused a moment, frowning. “Are you being ridiculous on purpose?” Rogers asked.

“Yes,” D-24 responded. “Was it funny?”

Funny? The droid was asking him if he was being funny? Since when did droids care about company, and expressing themselves, and being funny? This prototype was strange indeed.