The Errant Adventures of Trip and Wyl!

[Trip]

Various problems arise when a droid is left active too long. Extended operations cause inevitable glitches, code corruptions, and dirty packets of data that can disrupt the perameters of the core operating system. Sometimes these glitches can affect vocabulator software, where appropriate; droids belonging to owners with particularly strong accents are designed to adapt their speech recognition over time to ease interaction, but sometimes those adaptions unintentionally migrated to the vocal processors, and adapted the droid's linguistic subroutines to match. Sometimes, owners would project a personality onto their droid, referring to them with gender pronouns, interacting with them as friends; servants; equals; pets - the droid would often adapt to that, its program expanding the role based on information in its database, and obtained by observation of organic beings, all to better serve their master.

Sometimes however, the corruptions were completely random, and the quirks conjured could vary wildly. Some droids developed corruptions in their obedience subroutines, ignoring instructions and instead functioning on their own calculated logic. Sometimes those logic centers too could be corrupted, and the droid's ability to sensibly interpret situations could be wildly thrown off.

Today was one of those days. The droid currently trundling through the passageways that led from one of Cloud City's landing platforms - a he, based on the imprinting of his numerous owners - had such corruption to his core software that he'd been unable to properly understand the meaning of the instruction: "Go away." Currently, his internal positioning system was working in concert with his external sensors, and informed him that he was one hundred and seventy-six point oh three meters from the IFF transmitter aboard the Astral Queen. Master Amos had not specified just how far away the droid should proceed, but it seemed logical - to him at least - that he continue moving away from Amos' presumed location until instructed to do otherwise, or until variations in terrain prevented his range-to-target from increasing any further.

Working his way through the more commercial sections of the facility, he halted for a moment to interact with a computer terminal and update his internal mapping. A quick comparison with his structural sensors located his position; various calculations streamed through his core processor - located in his chest, rather than in his head like most of the technologically ignorant humanoids seemed to assume - and he plotted the best course. The residential areas of the complex seemed to be the furthest linear distance from the ship; with the vertical differential taken into consideration as well, that would be his best choice of destination if he intended to comply with Master Amos' instructions.

The servos in his almost canine paws whirring into action, Trip trundled off in search of an elevator.

[Wyl Staedtler]

They were built for speed and the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his entire life. Reflective silver finish, an intricate webbed-pattern of glowing red criss-crossing along each side, arched just right in the middle and tipped with a cap of bright blue.

Wyl Staedtler grinned happily at his new shoes. They'd been quite a find - stuffed at the bottom of a bargain bin in one of the many thrift stores that littered Cloud City's shopping levels. The size was right, and more importantly the price was, too. It had literally been the highlight of the boy's day. He was not a fan of long shopping trips (as this particular venture was becoming, a flock of tiny errands quickly adding up) but a pair of good shoes certainly helped as far as endurance went.

Plus, they were really rather cool. Wyl wriggled his feet and bounced on his toes a bit, testing the springiness of the soles.

"Wyl," The boy glanced up at Morgan, who smiled and handed him a small parcel. He glanced inside; wires and some strange looking mechanical bits. Wyl grinned eagerly, anticipating a project. He was always eager to learn new skills and so long as he hung about, Morgan was always generous with dispensing information.

The man motioned outside. "Go and give that to Daria, I'll just be a second."

"Okay." Wyl nodded and turned to leave the parts shop. Daria was just a few stores away, bartering. He'd been flicking back and forth between them.

"What's your best time?" Morgan asked. His eyes were knowing as they watched the boy shifting from foot-to-foot. Wyl straightened proudly.

"One way?"

"There and back."

"Forty-eight seconds!" He beamed. "I tripped, though."

"I'll give you forty-five."

A determined glint sparkled in Wyl's eyes at the challenge. He dropped into a ready pose and waited for Morgan to give him the go-ahead. As soon as he did, Wyl was off like a shot, arms pumping and new shoes squeaking like protocol droids translating at a trade negotiation.

The busy pedwalks were hardly an obstacle for his slight frame. Wyl bobbed and weaved - he could make the sharpest turns with his new footwear, almost as if they had airbrakes - and pushed himself as fast as he could. So absorbed was he in burning through the crowd that he didn't once spare a glance at the ground to make sure his path was clear until it was too late.

With a startled yelp, Wyl stumbled over something and went flying headlong. Palms and knees skidded along the pedwalk and Wyl came to a grinding halt; the package he'd been carrying burst open, parts scattering in all directions around him.

For a moment Wyl was too stunned to move. After a cautionary second, the boy slowly flipped over off his belly and gingerly inspected himself. His hands were burning sharply and there was an ugly rip in the right knee of his pants. A reddening scrape bloomed on the revealed skin. Wyl's lower lip wobbled uncertainly. He couldn't tell if it hurt or not - the boy leaned forward to inspect for blood.

[Trip]

Trip had never seen a human fly before. Given the minimal distance travelled, and the rather ungainly landing that came at the end, Trip supposed that there were several reasons for that. Aerodynamics not withstanding - frankly, the loose-fitting body plates that they covered themselves in, and the strange, soft padding that protected their internal structure was far too variable to ever form the kind of aerofoil surfaces that would be required to achieve and maintain lift. His memory banks whirred, dredging up a visual record of other humanoids who fitted themselves with reinforced body plates, and had thrusters mounted to their dorsal surface to provide a boost in acceleration; the file demonstrated that it was indeed possible for a human to achieve flight, then. This particular specimine had merely neglected to await the proper upgrades before his maiden voyage.

Scooting slowly across the floor, body hunching down against the ground for moderately improved weight distribution as he accellerated, Trip trundled his way over to where the human had fallen. A biological scan confirmed the species, and estimated a male specimine of slightly less than a decade of operation. Further study revealed a tear in the flimsy coverings on the secondary joint of the human's right lower limb, beneath which a fluid was beginning to seep. Judging from the viscocity, it was presumably some sort of hydraulic fluid associated with the operation of said limb joint. Further visual scanning revealed another, much less dense fluid, seeping from behind the human's face plate. Coolant, perhaps? Were the human's ocular receptors overheating as well? Trip felt a pang of sympathy: this particular model had clearly been rather poorly maintained.

As he drew closer, his forepaws crunched over something on the pedwalk. Trip recoiled in horror, his own ocular receptor locking on to and scanning various mechanical parts strewn around them. The servos in his neck twitched frantically as his focus shifted from component to component, periodically switching to the human. Was the damage more extensive than he had originally thought?

A quick chemical analysis of the broken limb and the missing component showed significant discrepancies in chemical composition. Likely, the unit was merely transporting spare components for another unit. Relief swelled up inside him. Focus, the droid instructed himself. For his repair functions to be properly utilised, he would need to tackle this problem with a logical, linear approach.

Rolling closer again, he allowed his ocular receptor to focus on one of the human's, neck servos twitching slightly in indecision as the droid struggled to select between the two options. Trip's vocabulator - a crude, monotonous device, salvaged from a maintainance droid - sparked into life, internal processors searching through linguistic and grammar databases for the necessary components to construct an approximate, clunky sentence. "Does your self-diagnostic reveal any significant mechanical damage, young master?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl began to sniffle as the first bead of blood appeared at the corner of his scrape, pooling until it formed a drop heavy enough to ooze down his leg. Now that he thought of it, his knee really did hurt. It hurt a lot - almost like he was an mountain explorer who'd fallen down a cliff and into a nest of hungry aeris birds. No, scratch that, it was a krayt dragon den and he was a hide hunter...

A monotonous voice startled Wyl from his imaginings. The boy looked up tearfully. His eyes grew wide as he took in the small droid; he didn’t recognize the model but it looked like a robot version of Tak when she changed. Immediately intrigued, Wyl leaned closer.

It spat out something that he guessed was a question from the clumsy tonal rise at the end.

Wyl scrunched his face up. “Huh?”

[Trip]

Analysis? ...

Verbal intonation; possible question, query.

Scanning abbreviations; linguistic contractions ...

Huh ...

Interjection ...

Exclamation of surprise; bewilderment; disbelief; contempt; or interrogation ...

Context? ...

Trip's head twitched as he processed the latest input, scouring his memory banks for clarification on what turned out to be a remarkably non-specific linguistic device that the boy had used. More searches followed, trying to reformulate Trip's original statement with alternative linguistics; an attempt to bypass what semmed to faulty language interpretation software on the part of the human. A thought operation registered in the droid's CPU: perhaps the process would be made more swift if he were to interface directly with the human? A quick surface scan revealed no obvious dataports, however; at least, none that were compatable with the equipment Trip had available.

The construction of the replacement word string complete, Trip's head tilted to one side. In truth the movement was an attempt to align his ocular receptor from an alternative perspective, but an outside observer could be forgiven for mistaking it as a rather human gesture of concern. "Are you injured?" Trip asked, the lens on his receptor rotating as the unit automatically corrected focus.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Ah, so that was what the droid meant. Why hadn't it just said so in the first place? Whoever owned it must not have thought much about upgrading it's colloquial language banks.

"Yeah." Wyl rubbed his sleeve across his nose and nodded. "My knee's all busted up. It stings!"

Trip advanced closer and Wyl shielded a hand over his wounded appendage, just in case. It was strange that this little unit was by itself - it didn't appear to be off on an errand, although he guessed that he could have been misinterpreting the almost uninhibited manner in which the droid was conducting itself. Normally he would have expected it to offer a slapdash apology before rushing off to fulfill whatever mission it's master had supplied it with.

A thought occurred to him: maybe nobody owned it! Wyl's pulse quickened. As defined by the all-important Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers clause, if nobody claimed the droid, he was rightfully entitled to it.

"I'm Wyl." Wyl blinked and tilted his head to the side. "What's your name?"

[Trip]

The droid cocked his head to one side, processing the inquiry. "I have no offical designation," he stated, seeming to be regarding the all busted up knee with more interest than anything else about this rather odd encounter. "I am a custom-constructed replica of a T3-series Utility Droid, and as such have no specific serial number or unit designation."

Trip's head rocked from one side to the other in broken, jerky movements. From a sentient, that revelation would perhaps have been delivered in mournful tones, and while the droid's body language seemed to convey similar emotions, his voice was unable to do the same. "However, Master Jaden and Master Amos often refer to me as Trip." The droid seemed to consider that point for a few moments. "I believe that is my name."

Despite having provided an answer, the droid continued to ponder the question a little further, studying its forepaws as it thought. Suddenly, it seemed to have downloaded some resolve from somewhere; its receptor shot up to focus on the boy. "I am designation Trip," the droid introduced, extending the mechanical arm from within his shell in a greeting gesture. He had seen Master Jaden and Master Amos perform such a greeting several times, and while they usually employed one of their upper limbs, Trip lacked the necessary flexibility; this was his best approximation. "I am -" He scanned his memory banks for the phrasing that his humans used. "- pleased to meet you, designation Wyl."

[Wyl Staedtler]

"It's just 'Wyl'." said Wyl, gently hooking his pinkie finger on the droids extended appendage. He thought that Trip was a particularly fitting name for the unit, especially considering how they'd just met. "And it's good to meet you too. Well, except for the falling part."

The boy's smile faded somewhat at the thought that he couldn't take Trip home. That would have been excellent. He didn't have a droid of his own - and he knew that Morgan could have really done a number on Trip's internal systems. Once the little guy was upgraded, they really could have had a wild time.

Wyl carefully began to collect the strewn parts, mindful not to put his injured knee down on the dirty pedwalk. "Did I hurtcha when I ran into you? Where are you goin' all by yourself, anyway?"

[Trip]

Doing as he had seen the humans doing before, he snapped his extended mechanical arm downwards, attempting to shake himself free of Wyl's grip. It seemed like such a strange custom - intentionally entangling yourself with the appendages of another, only to attempt to free yourself afterwards. Strange customs seemed to be a theme with the organics that Trip had encountered, however. Perhaps their programming was falty.

"I am undamaged, Just Wyl," the droid replied, head twitching to follow Wyl's movements, gathering the dropped components. It seemed silly to assign an individual to such a task who was not fitted with some sort of internal transportation capacity, but then again humanoids seemed to show very little variance in their design, which Trip considered to be a grave mistake.

Waiting a few moments before providing an answer to the other question that was presented - organics were known for their somewhat limited ability to process multiple information feeds at once - he formulated his response carefully. "I am complying with a directive issued by Master Amos," he explained. The young humanoid didn't seem to understand that either. Definately software damage. He restructured his response for clarification. "I was instructed to 'go away', and am currently in the process of moving as far from my original location as the internal structure of this facility will permit."

He cocked his head to one side, running a brief calculation. "I am currently eight hundred and fifty-three point six six -" He inched backwards slightly, allowing the Wyl unit to retrieve a component trapped beneath one of his forward limbs. "- correction, point five three meters away from the landing platform in which my vessel of origin is berthed."

His head twitched again; Just Wyl seemed to have completed his task. "By your estimation, have I complied sufficiently with my instructions, or should I continue to increase the distance further?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl laughed and shook his head as he dropped the collected parts into their package.

"No no no, my name is Wyl. Well, it's Wyl Staedtler, but people only ever say that when I'm in trouble." It was unlikely that the droid would understand the reasoning behind that; he wasn't exactly quick on the uptake as far as social nuance went.

Everything, in fact, seemed to be very literal to Trip. Wyl listened to the droid's explanation with growing amusement. The boy wrestled for a moment with the idea of telling him that 'go away' was an abbreviation for 'go away with the first person who asks you to', before his conscience intervened and insisted on honesty.

"I think he probably meant that he just wanted you to stop bothering him." Wyl said. The boy thought for a moment and eyed Trip critically. "Unless he said, 'and don't come back', too. Did he say that?"

[Trip]

The young humanoid's assumption was correct: Wyl did not understand the reasoning behind it. In fact, it all seemed rather backward to him. Organics seemed to have a strange obsession with abbreviating their designations, or assigning alternative titles to droids that lacked any kind of indication of their function or design lineage. In Trip's case, being constructed as a unique entity, there was very little to actually abbreviate; most other droids however found the contraction of their name to be somewhat stupid, and at times a little insulting.

No one seemed to have actually gotten around to informing the organics of this however, and now hardly seemed like the appropriate time.

Accessing his memory banks, Trip considered the last question that 'Wyl' - he made a point of ammending his memory banks to ensure that he didn't accidentally refer to the humanoid by any other form of address - had issued. Scanning through his audio records, he made his determination. However, as a concession to the humanoid - so as not to flaunt his superior memory capacity - he added a little vagueness to his speech. "I do not believe so, Wyl."

He considered for a moment longer, deciding to compound his concession with speculation, so as not to disappoint the humanoid any further. "If he did, my audio receptors did not detect it."

[Wyl Staedtler]

The boy nodded, though he was somewhat disappointed.

"Gee, Trip, it sounds like he wasn't real clear." Wyl didn't want to say that the droid had misunderstood the command completely. It might hurt Trip's feelings -- well, alright, that was a silly notion because he knew the unit didn't actually experience emotions, not in the true sense of the concept, but he didn't want to take any chances. He liked Trip.

"Usually 'go away' means that you should leave the room. 'Cause whoever's sayin' it might be grouchy or be doin' important business stuff." A little twist of irritation settled in Wyl's belly; surely Trip's owner had some familiarity with his quirks. This 'Master Amos' guy must've known that Trip would follow the directive to the letter. If he'd intentionally sent the little guy on an endless pilgrimage...

Wyl stood, wincing a bit as the scraped skin at his knee bunched, and squinted down. "C'mon, let's go back to your ship."

[Trip]

Trip's head pitched back as he watched Wyl stand. Conflicting directives clashed in his head. His core programming insisted that he obey the instructions put forward by an organic unit; a safeguard put in place to allow bystanders to prevent droids from causing undue harm or damage by accidents caused by inadvertant oversights that their programming had not forseen. It was rare that a droid would make such an oversight, but this instance seemed to apply as an example: apparently an error in the instructions provided by Master Amos had led to a misinterpretation of Trip's assignment.

That clashed with his programming to complete his given assignment, or at least to continue with it until instructions were recinded. While the first directive permitted Wyl to provide instructions, Trip was not entirely sure that such things were permitted. Master Amos was the primary organic assigned to provide him with instructions: Master Jaden had appointed him as such, and The Maker himself had granted Master Jaden with the authority to do so. How would Master Amos react if he did not allocate a directive from him as a higher priority than one from Wyl?

A cognative process connected. If they returned to the ship, he would be able to query Master Amos directly if his instructions were still active, and request further clarification on the specific nature of his assignment. That seemed like the most logical option, and allowed him to continue to comply with both objectives.

Satisfied that he had averted a potential system error, he reversed a few feet. "Affirmative, Wyl," he vocalized, inverting the direction of his left drive servos to swing him into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree rotation. He allowed his upper sensory platform to pivot around to face Wyl again, ensuring that the humanoid was prepared to follow. "This way."

Satisfied that he was not leaving Wyl behind, he re-aimed his ocular receptor in his direction of travel, spun his servos in the same direction again, and led the way back to the landing platform.

[Wyl Staedtler]

The thought occurred to him that he should probably tell Daria or Morgan where he was going before he disappeared so they didn't worry.

Of course, if Morgan thought that he was with Daria and Daria thought that he was with Morgan, then logically they wouldn't worry because there was nothing to worry about . Wyl didn't think it was his place to correct such assumptions. Especially if said assumptions assured him an afternoon of adventure.

The boy happily trotted alongside Trip, marveling at the droid as they threaded their way along the pedwalk. Wyl's hand twitched at his side, barely managing to contain the urge to pat the shiny little head.

"What kinda ship do you live on?" He chirped, eyes bright. "Is it old? I sometimes live on a ship that's old. And slow. But that's okay because at least it's something and it's pretty good for practicin' m'piloting which is a very important skill. I'm not very good yet but I will be one day. Can you fly, Trip? What sorta ship did you say you had again? I bet it's big, huh?"

[Trip]

Trip's core processor groaned as he broke down the tirade of enthusiastic speach into specific queries that could be individually processed. He logged away the organic's interest in piloting as an aspect of his droid-formed personnel file: its relevance was likely minimal, but Trip's programming did things like that automatically; trying to prevent them from doing so would have taxed his already stressed systems even further.

The second query seemed the easiest to respond to. "I am not programmed as a piloting droid," he revealed. A very simple and specific answer, but one that would likely lead to additional queries. He ran a subroutine to generate a list of potentially relevant related facts. "I am not programmed with any astronavigation functionality either. My primary role is as a repair and utility droid, with additional software to perform system programming if required."

His collision avoidance radar fired a message to his motor processors, and he snapped suddenly to a halt. The organic continued - no collision radar either? - and so a mechanical arm shot out from Trip's shell, snagging the back of the boy's fabric body plates. A quick calculation triggered a brief burst of reverse drove from his motor servos, preventing him from rolling forward as he relied on his mass to arrest the organic's forward motion. One point seven-four seconds later, a speeder bike shot past, some errant organic youth obviously lacking an accurate map of which areas of the Cloud City facility permitted high-speed repulsorlift travel. Sensor sweeping both ways before preceeding, Trip released his grip on Wyl, and trundled on ahead.

"My current assignment is to a YT-2000 series Corellian Transport," he revealed, finally managing to isolate another query to which he could respond. Another mental calculation ran, attempting to determine what perameters he should measure the 'oldness' of the vessel against. He formed an estimate of Wyl's own age. "The ship is aged approximately three of your lifetimes. Would that qualify as 'old', Wyl?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl, seemingly oblivious to his narrow escape from becoming pedestrian mulch, looked at Trip with wide-eyed pity. He was well aware that droids were constructed for a multitude of reasons and that each one served it's own unique purpose; still, it seemed overtly cruel that, on such a beautiful ship, the little droid was relegated to repairs. The boy's opinion of the unit's owners dropped even further.

"It's almost thirty? That's ancient!" Wyl exclaimed over the ship. He attempted to whistle, failed spectacularly, and settled for shaking his head. "I bet you gotta do a lotta work on her, huh? 'Specially the YT-2000s, they're touchy."

They made an odd pair as they trundled along conversing, the boy's exhuberant gesturing and energetic footwork a stark contrast to the droid's steady pace. As they neared the end of the marketplace and the crowds thinned, Wyl cast a worried look down at his new friend.

"Your masters aren't gonna be mad, are they? That you wandered off?" He asked. He looked around cautiously before hunching over, pressing close to Trip's auditory receptors. Wyl's face screwed up fiercly. "Because I can do stuff to 'em if you're gonna be in trouble."

[Trip]

Trip's motor servos halted as he stopped to consider that possibility. The word 'mad' was typically used to describe individuals of questionable sanity; certainly, Master Amos would not be driven to insanity by the arrival of a new organic aboard the ship.

He had certainly not responded in that way the times that Master Jaden had brought organic companions of his own aboard, though Master Amos did occasionally suffer from a pneumatic leak whenever Master Jaden and his companion had isolated themselves in the sleeping quarters. Based on the audio telemetry that Trip had been able to retrieve from such events, he speculated that one or other of Master Jaden and his companion was performing repairs on the other; given that Master Jaden seemed to be operating within normal perameters in the prelude, he speculated that it was the companion who was undergoing maintainance. Trip did find it strange however that Master Jaden did not provide the same function to Master Amos, to repair his pneumatic leaking. Perhaps Trip should offer to make the repairs himself, at the next opportune moment?

Still, the fact that Wyl had expressed concern for the mental wellbeing reinforced his belief that his arrival would not be objected to. Analysis of his personality programming suggested a high chance of positive correlation with Master Amos' own programming. He span his ocular receptor towards Wyl as he verbalised his conclusions. "By my calculations, Master Amos' cognative stability will not be adversely affected by your presence, Wyl."

Without another word, Trip's motor servos span back into action, propelling him down the corridor. Finally, they had reached the vacinity of the docking bay; Trip's internal navigation system registered the nearby data terminal as being the same one he had used to access an internal map of the building's configuration earlier. He span his ocular receptor to aim behind him, observing that the organic was travelling with less speed than he was himself - a problem shared by the strange method of propulsion employed by organics and protocol droids alike.

"We are in close proximity to our destination, Wyl. This way."

[Wyl Staedtler]

"If that means you're not done for, then okay." Wyl nodded and gave Trip's head a fond little pat with a slightly-sticky palm. Boy, Tak would get a kick out of this; it was too bad she wasn't here. Maybe though, if he asked really nice, he could borrow Trip for a few days. The droid couldn't be that important to ship maintenance if it's absence had been encouraged and Wyl could think of a million fun things that the three of them could do. Trip would make a great mascot for their top-secret club and they'd made extra badges anyway, just in case, so it was simply a matter of swearing the robot in!

It was clearly an idea that needed pursuing. Wyl began drafting negotiation terms in his head while he trailed behind the droid. "How come you guys are on Cloud City, anyway?"

[Trip]

Trip ground to a halt. There were several reasons. The first was because some kind of structural damage had ruptured a fluid container in the landing bay, spewing the contents across the deck plates, right in front of his wheels. A quick visual evaluation identified the fluid as some kind of ethanol-based substance; presumably some sort of alcoholic consumable, that certain models of the organic droid series seemed to consume as - if the devitation in motor function observed afterwards was anything to go by - some sort of lubricant. He considered the substance to be particularly inefficient, given the quantity required to have any kind of noticable effect; it also seemed to produce some kind of unpleasant by-product, that was usually discharged from their input-output valve.

The second reason - perhaps a reinforcement of the first, rather than an entirely separate reason; ammended to reason 1a - was the data that his ocular receptor collected from the shipping information denoted on the side of the container. It indicated that this particular cluster of cargo was intended to be loaded aboard the Astral Queen, which undoubtedly meant that Master Amos would not be pleased to witness the displacement of the fluid from its expected location.

Reason 2.0 was to answer Wyl's query. He paused to consider the question more thoroughly, his adaptive programming already having learned to consider all the possible connotations that Wyl's somewhat inaccurate language centers generated. Inferring what he believed to be the correct intended meaning of the arrayed words, he formulated his response. "Because Bespin posesses no planetary surface upon which a spacecraft can land, Wyl."

Trip's voice recognition software identified a familiar set of sound waves detected by his audio receptors. He orientated his ocular receptor in the relevant direction, facial recognition protocols confirming the analysis of his other systems. "We have arrived at our destination," he informed his companion, forelimbs retreating backwards into their at-rest, sitting position. "And Master Amos is approaching."

[Amos Iakona]

"What do you mean, your insurance doesn't cover it?"

A gabbled reply came from the whatever-it-was on the other end of the comlink channel, and Amos swore loudly. With a snarl, he ripped the earpiece from his head and hurled it across the cockpit, sending it clattering noisily along the deck plates. Remarkably the device survived, and the channel remained open, the voice still talking away to no one. Amos didn't care. Bastard shipping company. Bastard red tape. Three of the twelve bottles of Corellian Brandy he'd picked up at the Cloud City market for resale off-planet were currently soaking into the superstructure of the former mining outpost because some brainless moron had dropped the shipping container. So help him: he wanted his money back.

At least nine were still left, he supposed with a heartfelt sigh, ceasing the continual pacing that had kept his legs occupied for the last hour, and wandered out into the landing bay itself in search of purpose. It was probably wise to get the remains of his cargo safely stowed on the ship, before more idiocy among the Cloud City personnel ate further into his expected profits.

Things seemed eerily quiet as he left the ship. His passenger was - well, he didn't really know where his passenger was, but frankly he didn't really care right now. He'd fulfilled his contract in delivering the guy to Cloud City, and his credit count was a little higher because of it. All in all, not a bad day, as things go. There was another notable absense as well. He frowned as he stepped out into the slightly brighter lights of the landing bay. "Where the hell is that droid?"

Surprisingly, the droid was waiting patiently beside the damaged cargo container. While Trip wasn't exactly designed for heavy lifting, the fact that he had positioned himself somewhere not just out of the way but also in a theoretically helpful place seemed strangely uncharacteristic for the annoying hunk of metal.

His fingers scratched at the nest of a beard that descende from his chin. The droid didn't seem to be alone, either: a young boy seemed to be with him, standing a little too close for his presense there to be entirely cooincidental. Probably some kid passenger from one of the ships landed in a neighbouring bay, snooping around to keep himself entertained while his parents got on with other things.

Amos frowned, not really in the mood to be dealing with small children right now. He drew to a halt on the far side of the brandy pond, and folded his arms across his chest. His voice was a mix of stern and growling. "Can I help you, kid?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl turned at Trip's announcement and watched as a hulking man with an irritated scowl advanced. The boy found himself unconsciously stepping in front of Trip, eyebrows arching suspiciously. He didn't appear to be in a friendly mood. In fact, he looked like he wouldn't hesitate to pick up errant droids (or smallish-sized boys) and toss them off of a pedwalk if they irritated him.

Jeepers he was huge.

He regarded Amos with a careful eye and then shrugged, making the motion as casual as he could. "I'm a friend of Trip's. He invited me over." Which wasn't entirely true, but wasn't a lie either.

[Amos Iakona]

Stunned disbelief grabbed at Amos' eyebrows, and wrenched them into a retreat towards his hairline. He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that; though the kid was clearly intimidated by his appearence - as were most members of most species - the efforts towards bravery were somewhat endearing.

Wait, no. Not endearing. Annoying child. Go away, annoying child. Amos reinforced that thought in his mind, and tried to narrow his eyes suspiciously; instead, the corners of his mouth twitched in a barely restrained smile. His hand rose to his face and smoothed its way down his jaw. "Did he, now?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

"Yes." The boy responded with an earnest frown, apparently mistaking Amos' tone for one of disbelief. Silence stretched between them as Wyl waited to see if the man was going to make any sneaky moves; when he didn't, the boy exhaled.

"You told Trip to get lost." It was said in a tone which belied Wyl's opinion of the pilot before him. Amos ranked somewhere between people who ran puppy mills and green vegetables, apparently. "That's a lousy thing to say. He thought you meant it!"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos had a blanket dismissal prepped and ready, but it never made it past the back of his throat. While the phrasing had probably been a little different - go away, leave me alone, or something like that - he did vaguely recall sending the droid from his presence earlier in the day. In hindsight, considering how literally the droid seemed to say everything, they might perhaps have been poorly chosen words.

Another dismissal formed in his mind, but the kid's face looked like it was prepping for some kind kind of rupture or explosion. Oh god, Amos thought, dread forming an icy pit in his stomach. He's not going to cry, is he?

Despite the fact that the droid lacked anything even closely resembling emotions, Amos still found himself looking down at Trip, wondering how on Bespin he was supposed to appologise. It seemed almost surreal, but his somewhat pittiful understanding of how one dealt with children suggested that this was the safest option.

"I -" He struggled to find the right words: ones that would satisfy the child, but without leaving him feeling totally ridiculous. The kid's eyes didn't shift off him. He crouched, hitching his trousers a little to allow his knees to bend as he squatted down to eye-level with the droid. "I'm sorry, Trip," he tried, eyes flicking to the kid periodically to see if his efforts were having any kind of effect. "I spoke rashly earlier, without considering my words carefully enough; I should have known you would misunderstand, and should have tried to be clearer in my instructions."

Still no sign of approval from the droid. "I'll give you -" He searched his mind, trying to think of some kind of activity that might sound - to the boy at least - like an appropriate penance for his actions. "- a full overhaul? Oil bath; new spark plugs; the works. I'll even see if I can fix that limp in your left servos as well." His eyes sought out the boys. "That sound okay?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

"And he'll teach you t'fly," Wyl added, patting Trip consolingly while he leveled a quick, meaningful glance at Amos that clearly implied the man had no other choice but to agree. The (very much required) apology had come as a pleasant surprise but the boy wasn't going to give the impression that he could be satisfied so easily. Especially by a stranger, irregardless of whether that stranger had an awesome ship.

Casting a curious look about the landing, Wyl wondered whether or not his absence had been noticed yet. It hadn't taken he and his droid friend very long to navigate the city but neither would it take a great deal of time for Daria or Morgan to locate him. The boy just hoped that they were still engrossed in their various errands.

"I'm Aron," He finally said, turning back to Amos all business-like. An excited rush flooded over him as he doled out the alias; this must be what it felt like to be a spy. Wyl fought back a grin and thrust his hand out. "Aron... Racewing."

[Amos Iakona]

Aron Racewing.

Amos almost cringed, but apparently the kid had no idea of how painfully obvious it had been that he'd made that name up on the spot. He considered interrogating the droid, to see what name 'Aron' had provided to Trip, but decided against it. He already been reprimanded enough for his interactions with the droid; risking any further imposed punishments from the kid wasn't worth the effort.

Speaking of which, Amos briefly considered pointing out to the kid that Trip didn't have the necessary programming to actually understand the principles of spaceflight. But again: not worth the effort. He'd just tell Aron that he'd do it later, just to keep the kid quiet and get him out of his hair.

He adjusted his face into what he hoped was an expression that looked like he completely accepted and believed everything that Aron had said, which required a little manual adjustment of his jaw and beard that conveniently hid the amused smile trying to form on his lips.

"Pleased to meet you, uh, Mister Racewing," he managed to force out eventually. "I'm -" He considered making up an alias of his own, but no doubt the droid had already revealed his true identity. That was unfair, frankly, but his mind didn't seem ready to offer up any appropriate alternatives anyway, so he just stuck with what he knew. "- Amos Iakona. Pleased to meet you, kid."

[Wyl Staedtler]

"You're huge; are you part Mandallian?" An enthusiastic shake of the enormous palm seemed to indicate that Amos' efforts at reconciliation with Trip had been approved of by the boy. Without waiting for a reply, Wyl reclaimed his hand and stuffed it in his trouser pocket, jockeying back and forth a bit on his heels. "You don't have to call me Mister Racewing. Or kid. Aron's fine."

Sticking close to Trip, Wyl circled around a few steps, scrutinizing the ship with eager eyes. There was enough distance between he and Amos to maintain a sense of safety and the ability to run away should anything go awry, but not enough to make it seem as if he were unnerved by the man.

"So," Wyl cleared his throat, kicked at one of the crates littering the loading dock with a sneakered foot, "M'a pilot, y'know."

[Amos Iakona]

Amos felt his eyebrow arching, at the overload of strange questions, queries and behaviour radiating from the kid. For example, Amos had no idea what a 'Mandallian' was, though based on the context it sounded like some particularly tall species of humanoid; maybe one of those really freaky things with the really pointy cone-shaped heads, or with the super-long necks. He frowned for a moment, wondering if eating and breathing and stuff felt really weird if your neck was that long. And would it take longer for you to get that sensation of bile or vomit rising at the back of your throat?

The kid - Aron, or whatever - kicked a crate. Amos' mind retreated from its inner wandering, and arranged for a scowl to form on his features. It didn't last long however; what concentration had been expended on looking angry was quickly diverted into stifling a laugh at the child's absurd claim. "Yeah, and I'm a Jedi Knight," he muttered, a subtle thread of sarcasm laced into his words. Kid'd probably need to stand on a box just to see out of the damned viewport.

[Wyl Staedtler]

The sharp look that passed across the boy's face as his startled eyes met Amos's was fleeting, but fierce in it's intensity. Wyl cocked an eyebrow as he stared at the man curiously, little mouth pursed and twisting as he angled his head first to the left and then to the right, as if the changing view mattered.

It wasn't there, solid and undeniably present, as it was when prodding at his master or the others, but the boy was surprised to find that he could feel the low buzz of ability that thrummed around and through Amos. Interesting. He wondered if the man knew about it and was just trying to lay low like all smart beings did, or if his sarcasm was genuine. At any rate, the discovery emboldened the boy and his afternoon of hooky was suddenly a much more rewarding quest; Daria was always telling him to slow down and concentrate - wouldn't she just be impressed to know that he did actually listen sometimes!

Chuffing a breath, Wyl shook his head. "No, you're not," He declared in a tone that bespoke his universal knowledge. "That's illegal. But I am a pilot; I can fly just about anything, practically, and when m'old enough m'gonna have my very own ship for me'n Tak--that's my wife--to live on."

[Amos Iakona]

Wife?

Okay, so the galaxy was a pretty diverse and varied place. There were planets were kids were married off at young ages as part of inter-family negotiations; but that was usually royalty or nobility, and this half-pint pilot hardly seemed like the type. More likely was that this so-called 'wife' wasn't anything at the sort. Amos' eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. From what he'd experienced of the kid so far, it wouldn't have surprised him if it was some kind of imaginary friend.

Amos decided to let the statement pass without any comment, despite the overwhelming urge to hit the kid up the side of the head for being such an idiot. Instead he winced, looking around himself at the cargo containers that still needed to be stowed aboard the Astral Queen. Mildly entertaining as this exchange was, it wasn't like he was drowning in time at the moment. He sucked a pensive breath between his tongue and front teeth, reluctance playing almost invisible across an expression that always betrayed almost nothing.

"Listen, Aron -" He sighed. "Nice as it is to meet you, this cargo won't load itself; and I've gotta be out of here by 1800. Would you, mind... you know -?" He let his voice wander off, lest his words fail to tell the kid to frak the hell off and leave him be.

[Wyl Staedtler]

Wyl's expression brightened and he nodded eagerly. "Sure! I don't mind at all, I totally don't!"

With obvious glee, the boy hopped over the the nearest cargo container (which was nearly as tall as he was) and pushed his sleeves up until they bunched about his elbows. Rubbing his hands together, Wyl bent and began pushing against the crate, small arms straining as he fought to scrape it along the ground and toward the ship. It remained stubbornly in place, and after a few moments of determined grunting, he stepped back and frowned at it.

"I'll supervise," He suggested, smiling at Amos and pointing at the crate. "That one needs to go in first."

[Amos Iakona]

Oh. Joy.

Amos bit down on a tirade of curses, instead truging over to where a repulsorlift loading sled had been abandoned, hovvering near-silently on a cushion of anti-gravity. With a single booted foot, arms folded across his chest, he kicked the floating device across the cargo deck towards Wyl. "Supervise, my ass," he muttered, shaking his head and sighing. "I assume you can work out how to pilot that thing, genius?"

[Wyl Staedtler]

Was Amos deaf? Had he not heard him when he'd said he could fly anything? Morgan was teaching him, after all, and Morgan knew everything there was to know about the business.

"S'easy enough," Wyl scoffed cheekily, catching hold of the bar on the sled and stopping it's forward motion. He gave Amos a smile full of sweet innocence and pointed again at the crate. "That one still hasta go first."

The man grumbled and the boy couldn't quite bite back a giggle as he winked at Trip. This was great; he'd help load up Amos's ship and in exchange for all his hard work, the man would no doubt agree that transferring ownership of the little droid to Wyl was only fair. Tak was going to be so surprised when he showed her the new mascot of G.R.O.S.S.!

While Amos hefted crates onto the repulsorlift dolly, Wyl studied the small console at it's base, fingering the tiny individual controls for adjusting the thrust and elevation of the device and the small toggle switch that he assumed turned it on and off. This was baby stuff. Why, it was hardly any work at all to push the loaded sled toward the ship and with his new shoes he was really able to build up some momentum before he hit the ramp, twisting every couple of seconds so he could peer around the boxes and assure his trajectory wasn't leading toward a sudden stop into a hard wall.

Stopping with the acquired speed was a little harder, what with the sled and it's cargo outweighing him significantly, but Wyl planted his feet and dug in, skidding across the ship's grating a few feet before it finally eased to a halt. The boy toed the airlocks on to keep the sled from drifting and looked over his shoulder at Amos. "That was fun!"