The Errant Adventures of Trip and Wyl!

[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."