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  1. It’s everyone’s favorite huffer! Wait. That doesn’t sound right. Anyways, there’s nothing better for a flounce offscreen than a proper “We Are Not Amused” accent. Here’s hoping the below amuse you, readers.

    Leucohyle exits the IND Temperantia, in a mild state of what can only be described as ‘kerfluffle’. She is speaking rapidly in that quasi-mad way that people with wireless PDA connections frequently exhibit. “I I am -telling- you there is is a a a -contagion- out there on this this -ship- and and it’s just sort of -floating- there and… what do you mean? No I I didn’t -board- what are you -mad- did you hear me I I said -contagion-.” Pause. “W-well good day to you as well!” The last line is delivered in a shrill, squeaky manner, and she sputters a few times before getting a hold of herself.

    Blink. Blink. Bl-ink. Leucohyle’s sparse eyebrows knit across her circuit-traced forehead with a force that could move starships. There are a few more blinks. “Sir,” she says, primly. “I’ve no position, l-literal or or metaphorical, that would make use of any talents, mentioned or implied, th-that you may have. I repair complex-machineries-and-construct-multipurpose robots. I have no unfilled niches for ‘fighting’ ‘being inebriated’ and and or ‘expressing as many archaic Earth-Eurasian racially-based epithets as possible in one conversation’.” Sniff.

    “Well. Why don’t you, whilst you are on your way, consider why, if I am so ineffective, why -I- am referred to as this station’s robotic genius, why -I- won the Expo, why -I- have a successful business. An Intelligence does not need to be self-aware, and anything that is self-aware should not be sold and forced to serve,” Leucohyle pipes, voice raising in both pitch and speed, and accent reaching ‘we are not amused’ levels. “My robots do -not- make mistakes. I do not solely produce pilots; if you were -paying attention-, I’ve only bloody built the one and it functions -very well-. But, underestimate me if you like, it makes no never mind to me. I will continue onwards without your approval. Good day, sir.”

    Leucohyle raises one sparse eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed by the outburst. “If I were going to to call you primitive, -sir-,” she pipes, “I would have called you primitive directly. Although it seems that you’re putting forth quite a hearty demonstration of your evolutionary state or lack thereof.” She cants her head to Kaden, and then shrugs to Ladek. “If I build something for the purpose of serving -me-, and and make it sentient, then there is no guarantee that they will choose to serve -me-. To force, coerce, or otherwise cajole a sentient mind is a shame upon sentience itself.” Omicron keeps its eyes upon both men. “I find your speaking of me as though I am not directly here, as well as your usage of the words ‘no offense’ after an offensive comment to be ironic, in the sense that such a behaviour is, in and of itself, quantifiable as ‘socially awkward’. And and people tell me I’m missing -so much- by avoiding mind-altering substances. -Yes-, your latest charge seems to be faring quite well.” Pip. “That was -sarcasm-. Good day, gentlemen.”

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