"Not all of consciousness is this strange," the Fokkerbot assured the young woman, its synthetic voice approximating a soothing tone. "Of course parts are stranger."
"This... It's like one of the stories the Eighth Tribe used to tell," Tatterdemalion said, her eyes roving about the polished-steel surfaces of the Lab. Her eyes were lined with tattooed lace-work, thick like goth eyeliner. Her black hair was still damp with goo from the bizarre extraction pod that had swallowed her off the planet.
The Fokkerbot angled its polished-steel head. "The abduction legends of the Eighth Tribe are actually based in fact. Although they themselves do not realize it." Tatter rolled dreamily onto her side. The long polished-steel table felt oddly comfortable. Clean.
"Can you make... Can you make me like this place?" she asked. "I want to..."
"You're tired of feeling soft and dirty. I can make you like polished steel."
Tatter tried to focus her gaze on the other person who had just quietly entered the room. The Fokkerbot continued. "I will forge you into a weapon. And you will hunt my prey." The lights on the robot's face blinked some more as it called up an image of a man, stubbly and tired looking, on a screen. The pic was labelled 'Cube'.
"Oh," Tatter said. "You mean the guy right behind you?"
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