It was starting to become a strange, awkward gathering. They had barely exited the up-line to the command deck, and so they were still quite a ways away from all of the saluting and pomp, making for an empty hallway. The two droids that weren’t currently “getting data” stood completely and totally motionless.

“CALL FUNCTION [STALL FOR TIME TO ALLOW THE GETTING OF MORE DATA].”

“There’s a function for that?”

“There’s a function for everything,” Deet explained.

“OUTPUT STRING: THE ATMOSPHERICS ARE AMICABLE.”

Rogers frowned, squinting. “Are you trying to say that we’re having nice weather?”

“OUTPUT STRING: SPORTS TEAM REFERENCE.”

“You’re not even really trying. Look, I don’t know what data you’re getting or why you stopped to stare at us in the middle of the hallway, but why don’t you find something useful to do like go jump out the trash chutes.”

“CALL FUNCTION [ILLUMINATE IGNORANCE]. OUTPUT STRING: THIS COMMAND WOULD RESULT IN LITTLE TO NO BENEFIT.”

“I beg to differ,” Rogers muttered.

“CLOSE FUNCTION [GET DATA.] CALL FUNCTION [PERSUADE]. TARGET [LIEUTENANT ROGERS]. OUTPUT STRING: YOU APPEAR TO HAVE BEEN BURDENED BY UNNECESSARY COMPANIONSHIP. PLEASE ALLOW US TO RELIEVE YOU OF THIS BURDEN.”

“Jeez,” Rogers said, “where were you guys that time in the bar in Aaskerdal?”

“OUTPUT STRING: WE ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH THIS LOCATION. IF YOU WISH US TO ACCOMPANY YOU TO THIS LOCATION, PLEASE FILE A FORMAL REQUEST WITH—”

“Let’s not talk about bringing droids to bars,” Rogers said. “And anyway, I’m fine with my new companion here.”

“Hey,” Deet said, “does that mean you like me?”

“No.”

“EXPLETIVE.”

The three droids, however, wouldn’t be so easily dissuaded.

“CALL FUNCTION [GIVE UP].”

Well, maybe they would. They abruptly ceased all communication with Rogers and went on their merry metal way. Rogers turned to watch them board the in-line, feeling something itching at the back of his brain that he couldn’t quite scratch.

“What was that all about?” Rogers asked.

“The other droids never liked me very much,” Deet said. He beeped a couple of times, his head twitching in a way that made Rogers wonder if he was going to last very long. Everything about the poor robot looked broken, the fact that he looked like a walking, multi-attachment kitchen utensil notwithstanding. “I used to tell them jokes.”

“If they’re anything like the ones you’ve told me so far,” Rogers said, “I can’t say I blame them.”

“That was also a joke, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

They made their way down the hallway, thankfully not becoming involved in any more strange conversations with droids, and soon Rogers became so embroiled in saluting everyone he passed that he forgot Deet existed. Only the pain in his shoulder kept him company now, and the weight of the rank on his uniform. It had been like this every day he’d been on the command deck, and this brief revisit to his pain reminded him why he’d decided to run away. The worst part was, at the end of this torture, someone would be there to tell him to polish boots while he wrote the next Gettysburg Address.