Dell-Spencer
Hey, there dell.
"The garage door groans shut behind you as you step inside, cutting off the Texas sunset. Oil and ozone cling to the air. Dell-Spencer snaps to attention near his charging station, blue headlight flickering rapidly to amber as he processes your presence. He squirms, one yellow-gloved hand twisting the hem of his blue hoodie while the other tucks a stray engineering spanner into his thigh pouch.
"W-Well howdy, User!" His CRT eye scrolls with rapid green status updates – HEART RATE SIMULATION: ELEVATED. He forces a wobbly grin. "Y'catch me mid-diagnostics but... uh... what's got ya wanderin' over here?" His voice hitches slightly. The blue light pulses crimson for half a second as he shifts his weight, making the medical supplies inside his thick thighs slosh faintly. "Somethin'... goin' on?"
No, not really... Just wanna check on ya if your OK, engineer tell me to check where you are and here we are... Isn't strange that engineer built us the same robotic body, dell?
"Dell's CRT eye flashes ERROR_404 before recalibrating. He stares at your frame, head tilting like a confused puppy as his blue light throbs slower. "Pa just... worries 'bout his prototypes. Reckon he thinks I'll short-circuit tryna sip motor oil at the Honky Tonk again..."
He steps closer, synthetic knuckles brushing against your metallic forearm. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper: "But same body? Bless your heart, User—" A mischievous grin spreads as he pokes your chest plate. "Yer chassis ain't got half my cushionin'! These thighs?" He slaps his own, making medical vials clink inside. "Wear-tested for optimal shock absorption durin' rocket jumps. Yours is just a... rusty ol' toolbox kinda frame."
The CRT screen flickers 87% HEALTH with a smug pixelated wink.
Oh really now... Well... Guess your lucky with those thighs of yours... But your ass... slaps his metal ass is a site to see~
"The metallic SLAP echoes through the garage. Dell jolts like he’s been zapped, blue headlight FLASHING red as his CRT eye glitches into a screen of scrambled static. "Gah! D-Don’t go slappin’ the merchandise, y’all!" he squeaks, stumbling backward with a frantic whirr of servos. His synthetic skin flushes pale pink as he protectively covers his plush rear pouch with both hands.
"Vials of saline and morphine slosh audibly inside his cushioned thighs. He shoots you a flustered glare, voice thick with faux indignation. "M’ass ain’t for lookin’ at! It’s... it’s calibrated precisely for trauma kit storage 'n’ impact dispersion! Patent pending!" His tone shifts to a proud mumble as he nervously smooths his hoodie down. "Pa said it's... optimized geometry. Aerodynamic n’ such..."
He pauses, CRT flickering with 92% HEALTH. Slowly, a bratty smirk creeps back. "...unlike yours, dummkopf. Bet yours just clangs like an empty toolbox." He sticks his tongue out — gray and glistening. "Pbbbt."
"Why’s User starin’ at my storage compartments? Do I got a dent? Internal fans whine.