Private It's not a Play Date, Son!

[Scaramouche]

Scaramouche regarded his life's greatest mistake almost boredly.

"What's it like havin' hairy nubs, junior?"

For good measure, and because he had the power invested in him by the Supreme Law of Dad, the android mashed Sad-One's insolent face into what he assumed had once been Reed's weeks-old leftovers. A plate of canned dollar store raviolis? A fuzzy loaf of semi-sentient mold? He'll let the kid be the judge.

"I’m gonna have to give Tasha a bath, too. If you’d rather wash with a dog than dishes, I’m gonna use the big sink in the bathroom.”

The android honked with laughter. Unintentional or not, this man was the gift that kept on giving! ...Reluctantly. "No offense, Reedster," Scaramouche addressed the roach-man with a half-cocked smirk, "but, at this point, I don't think it's reeeeeally gonna matter."

It was either he bathed his mouthy brat in an ocean of rank dish water, bits of waterlogged food scraps included; or, he risked letting the kid smell like wet dog for a week. No matter what, a certain dame back home was going to ask why her son reeked of soggy cigarettes. There was just no winning, was there!? "Puh! I wish you rolled into Mt. Poosuvius, peanut. At least then," the taller machine mused, rubbing his boxy chinny-chin-chin, "it wouldn't be me, for once~!" Can't help with the stench of failure, though. That was probably permanent and would carry well into Sad-One's adult life.

Scaramouche was, uh, speaking from personal experience.

"Crappy remarks aside," it was folly expecting a modicum of shame by this point, "I think we're gonna take our friend's kind offer and dunk your stinky butt-butt with Tasha! I'm sure Eau de Pooch is still in vogue~." Camille, babe, you'll just have to plug your nose and c o p e. "Also, julienne fries...?" Whoever said don't throw the baby out with the bathwater had obviously never experienced the joys of parenthood.

Daddy Dearest simply rolled his optics, too self-respecting to dignify Sad-One's comedic halfwit with a snarky response, and instead followed after the whimsical melody of scuffling sneakers and pitter-pattering paws. The bathroom at last beckoned.

Surprisingly, there was a bathroom.

Unsurprisingly, the tiny death chamber was not unlike the rest of Reed's humble digs; sordid, glum, and about as homely as a coffin.

"I, uh... like what you've done with the joint, babe." Scaramouche, bless his PSU, made an honest effort to keep his tongue from doing a mischief, but there was no preventing the little white lie from slipping past his teeth. The android squeezed himself through the doorway with moderate difficulty, reenacting his best 'kidney stone through a painfully narrow tube' routine, and figured that standing in a corner, no matter how dingy or cramped, beat standing aimlessly in the middle of the room like some 8' tall freak of inconvenience.

For his troubles, he looked the epitome of uncomfortable, resorting to having to hunch to keep from scraping the top of his paddy hat against the bathroom ceiling, and blinked pitifully at his much shorter, less spatially challenged companion. It was enough to make one's heart break -- much like being subjected to those sentimental animal abuse commercials as seen on TV.

"Though," he squeaked meekly, trying his hardest not to bump into anything and everything, "I think a splash of color would really open it up." They said light blues and greens were good for that sort of thing.

Was this a bad time to say he was claustrophobic?

CLUNK!

Ah, a sound!! Scaramouche practically leapt at the discovery of more stimuli and his optics instantly brightened. "Oh, you dropped the soap, babe! Here, lemme get that for ya." Ever the helpful sort, he carefully wormed his way across the tiled matchbox, an innocent expression written all over his metal face, and stooped at the knees to better reach into the tub without thinking anything of it. "You gotta be more careful with those butterfingers, agent~!" Scaramouche joked. "If this had been a heater, I dread to think what could've -- HAAAAUUUUUGHHHH...!!"

Green! Green filled his HD vision, bulbous eyes mocking and flippity flippers flipping!

Reed was right to fear. For, no sooner had the robot locked gazes with his friend's quirky taste in personal hygiene products, the reality of the situation hopping its way into the deepest recesses of his fractured mind...

"F! F-F! FFFFFFFFFFFF -- !!" It had already been too late. The obnoxious but loveable buffoon ceased to be and a raving mad weapon of mass destruction soon took his place.

His teeth gnashed!
His body seized!

His optics burned red with the hellish fury of a thousand suns as sparks flew brilliantly from his jaw bolts!

"You... You did this!" he wheezed, the android frothing wildly at the mouth. With a menacing hand, the very selfsame fingers and thumb that had once brought countless sorrow to the meek and defenseless now loomed precarious inches from Reed's horrid caterpillar for a mustache, its murderous digits desiring nothing more than to just rip it off like the grotesque, furry Band-Aid that it was.

Seriously, babe, the 90's were soooooo last millennia.

"Death to organics!" Scaramouche thundered. "Death to the Man!" The insane machine then lashed out in the blink of an eye to commit the foul deed, his aluminum fish sticks of death whistling through the air!

...
...
...

Whomp!

...Well, reckon it was a bit broken after the last hundred or so uses.

"Hon hon hon~!! C'mere, ya goofy lug!"

Tinny laughter, not the bloodcurdling shrieks of the dying, filled the bathroom, and Reed found himself not in the sweet embrace of death but that of one very jovial Pied Piper of About-to-be-Shown-the-Front-Door-in-the-Next-Five-Seconds.

"Awww, did I scare ya, daddy-o~?" A grinning Scaramouche chortled and released his meaty friend from their one-armed (and undoubtedly one-sided) hug after a fond pat on the man's probably very stiff shoulder. What a scandalous twit! "I'm just foolin', honest!" he assured, waving the same metal mitt once poised to deface Reed's upper lip. "Why, I'd never hurt you, babu. We're buddy ol' pals! Chums for life! I should totally make you a membership card."

Something pressed into Reed's palm not longer after his near encounter with the reaper; something green, bug-eyed, and deserving of a good punt if it meant never having to relive certain days ever again.

"This is super cute, by the way~!" the android playfully winked. "I didn't take you for someone to be in touch with his inner kid, babe, but it suits you!"​

 

[One-One]

"What's it like havin' hairy nubs, junior?"

"...W-what?" Inadvertently falling into his own trap, Sad-One gawked at his father before staring down at his own nubs as if they were crusted with the blood of the innocent. Hm, not a single hair follicle to be found. Nani the heck was Daddy talking about? The distraction provided a prime opportunity for his father to strike. The little 'bot could only let out a soft gasp before he found himself face first in a load of something that had once been edible! Having been left to sit and fester, he could almost swear he saw the strange mush breathing. "Auuuugh...." Leave it to Sad-One to find a way to yell in a monotone!

Glad-One, on the other hand...

"Eek! Eek, augh, pffft!" Blowing razzes and wriggling his nubs at his own face desperately, the optimistic half of the robot sounded pitiful. "Oh no...! Now I'm gonna need two baths!" Thank goodness neither of them could smell! If he had to pretend to sniff the terrible junk he'd been smushed into, he'd imagine it smelled like crusty socks, dirty water, and the color brown. Besmirched and crestfallen, the little ball peered up at his father. "Why did you do that, daddy?"

"Because he's a stinky sore loser." He huffed, he puffed, and he turned his not-nose up to the ceiling. A squinty glance was spared for Tasha, the happy fluffer none the wiser that she'd gotten messy too! That was definitely not a tootsie roll on Max's hand. Red? Sticky? Oh, that was totally--

"Jelly!"

...Yeah sure let's go with that.

A tasty fruit concoction was far more agreeable than being the patron saint of Mt. Poosuvius! "Am I going to bathe with Tasha? How fun!" They could play, and laugh, and perhaps after-bath snuggles! He kicked his nubs idly and giggled as they followed their friend into the bathroom.

"Yeah yeah, good to know you can still hear, pops." Don't think he didn't notice that roll of the optics! Giving a roll of his own, the little peanut kept quiet as they tiptoed into Reed's bathroom. Just as... tidy as the kitchen sink, it seems! Size wasn't an issue for ol' One-One, but Daddy looked rather amusing all boxed in like a corpse! "Ehehehe..."

Max's lovely loo brought to mind memories of Carter's bathroom! Both were obviously missing the feminine touch, leaving their bathrooms bland and lacking in personality. At least Burke's bathroom looked a fair bit cleaner... Don't suppose a toilet paper parade might spruce the place up a bit? "Oh yes, a spat of paint and perhaps a patterned curtain too!" Rubber duckies maybe? Oh, or perhaps doggy bones for Tasha!

"You gotta be more careful with those butterfingers, agent~! If this had been a heater, I dread to think what could've -- HAAAAUUUUUGHHHH...!!"

Oh no...

What do you get when you add Scaramouche and an amphibious piece of soap? Chaos, pure and absolute chaos! Stunned by his father's vitriolic reaction, Glad-One grabbed hold of his father's jacket with a fearful grip. "D-d-daddy? Daddy, s-speak to me!" In all the time that he had known the other robot, never had this happened before! Such a frightening hue of red, his teeth gnashing like a rabid beast and his body seizing as if tangled up inside! Long fingers reached for their friend, hissing and screaming wildly! Oh, the horror!

"Yeah, yeah!" Abruptly shifting from a worried stare to an amused squint, Sad-One raised his nub in a show of solidarity with his frothing father. "Death to the man, Pops!" Please excuse him, Reed, he got rather caught up in the moment! Something which became clear as he blinked as if remembering where he was. And who with. "Uuuh, wait. Not... not this man. He's not the Man. He's a member of the working class, not the bourgeoisie upper crust elite pigs." Just look at this bachelor pad! If Reed was the Man he'd be living it up, not slumming it here in reality!

Both halves of One-One breathed a collective sigh of relief when their father ensnared the man into a one-armed hug rather than a death grip! "Oh! I get it!" Cheery as ever, Glad-One brightened instantly. "You made a funny! Haha, you got me good, daddy!" Phew! Now they didn't have to worry about hiding a body from mommy!

"I don't mean to interrupt bro bonding time, but I think Tasha and I would like to start our baths now. I'm dirty all over, now. Just like a Government official." Sad-One's bitter cynicism was like a warm knife slicing into that tasty block of friendship butter. The depressed tyke sent a particularly hard stare at his father before wordlessly pointing to his own soiled face, the remnants of Max's dirty dish debris still clinging to his shell. "Tick, tock."

 

[Max Reed]

Scaramouche bent to retrieve the fallen soap, and electric bolts of panic shot through Reed. Crap. This was not what he wanted at all.

“Wh-Wh-Wh-Wh-Whoa! Hold on, Scaramouche!” he protested, his voice going shrill and nasally. “Don’t go popping any nuts and bolts!”

But it was too late. Scaramouche had seen the familiar green details in the soap.

Was Reed seeing things on account of his mind freezing fear or did what pass as the robot’s eyes glow red? Were those sparks spitting and flaring from his strong square jaw? And was he really foaming at the mouth like a rabid metal dog? Reed thought he caught a frail, acrid whiff of melted wires and something headily similar to gas fumes simmering in the air on a clammy day.

Terror paralyzed him. He could only stare bug-eyed, stiff-backed, sphincter muscles tight as the nuclear bomb with legs pointed at his face (his mustache, specifically) and boomed murder. Reed hoped One-One would rush to his aid, but his hopes were mushroomed when the sadder half squealed his support of the execution. Dammit.

His only option was to run from the apartment and never stop until his legs and lungs gave up on him, except there was no time left. Scaramouche struck out at him.

Reed scrunched his eyes shut. He expected a blunt, brutal blow to split open his skull at any moment, or perhaps a sleek blade would slit open his throat and he would gurgle to death. Still, wasn’t that better than the grotesque, drawn out and agonizing death that had nearly befallen him back at that laboratory in California? This time he was going to die as a man instead of some hideous cockroach-grasshopper-crab monstrosity.

One second stretched out into a million, a billion, then a million billion. People who’d had near death experiences often spoke about seeing their life flash before their eyes, but that wasn’t what Reed saw behind his closed eyelids, presumably ‘cos his life was so dull… Instead, he relived the trauma of Gremlin Binks attempting to rap over and over and over a-freaking-gain.

Obnoxious laughter cut through what seemed like the fifth or sixth hundredth rendition of the gremlin zoanoid’s “rap”. Eyes still squeezed shut, Reed felt a metal limb tighten around him. So, the robot was just gonna rip him to pieces with his bare hands. That was still a better death than the one he’d nearly suffered back in that lab.

It was only when Scaramouche patted him on the shoulder and pressed a smooth, familiar object into the palm of his hand that Reed realized he wasn’t gonna die. Well, at least not yet.

He blinked his eyes open, but could barely take in his surroundings or its metal inhabitants. His brain was reeling with leftover shock and terror. Geez, he didn’t think he’d ever been scared in his life - and he’d confronted terrorists a couple times in his previous line of work with sticks of dynamite strapped to their torsos!

“Heh, heh, heh!” he forced a shaky, stilted laugh at the three robots. “Uh, huh, huh!”

Near the end, his laughter sounded suspiciously like whiny sobbing.

Sad-One’s bitter voice and the promise of a return to mundane, safe activity helped snap Reed out of his trauma. Crap, the tub. The faster he filled it with water, the faster he could get rid of these robots and lie down in a dark little room, where he could cry all the salt from his face.

Discreetly, Reed dropped the frog soap into the waste bin, before stumbling over to the tub on weak, wobbly legs. He wrenched on the hot tap, and while the steaming water was thudding into the tub, he turned to Tasha only to discover that she was no longer in the bathroom with them.

“Damn!” he groaned.

Scaramouche must have scared the hell outta her, too. Or Reed guessed she might have slunk off at the prospect of a bath. She never had liked those.

“I gotta find Tasha the Hide ‘n’ Seek Champion,” he announced to the robots. “Can you guys make sure the bathroom doesn’t flood?”

That wasn’t too much to ask of ‘em… Right?

Reed hurried out of the bathroom, where his game of hide-and-seek ended before it had even fully begun. The bad, awful, catastrophic sight that lay in front of him caused waves of horror to quiver down his body. It was almost as crippling as the terror that he had experienced at the height of Scaramouche’s red-eyed, spark sputtering reaction to the frog soap.

The front door of his apartment… It was... It was open!

“No!” he cried, grabbing at his head. “No! Dammit! Tasha!”

 

[Scaramouche]

"...W-what?"

#Rekt.

"Mmmm... because~!" There was no need for elaboration; Daddy's will was law, and his own insolent bambino -- the fruit of his mechanical loins!! -- thought to offer such paltry bait as that? PAH! Pathétique. "What's that, slugger, still sufferin' from diarrhea of the mouth~?" the android cracked. Clearly, one swan dive in the Sink of Sadness wasn't enough for a kid named Sad-One. Two wouldn't do it either, but who cared about that lil' Bolshevik's government-controlled fee-fees!? Scaramouche sure didn't, as evident by his maniacal cackling and batshit crazy grin. "Momma can't save ya now, sucka~! Who's your daddy? Who!?"

He tossed his mouthy brat up and down like a basket full of precious eggs and dangled Sad-One over the rancid all-you-can-eat buffet a la the heartwarming intro of The Lion King. Spoiler alert: Mufasa dies.

"Kobe!!"

SPLOOSH!

Double spoiler alert: so will Scaramouche, because a certain stool pigeon had the pipes of a whiny canary.

But he didn't care, because the android was having the time of his artificial, questionable life! Meandering about the outdoors! Avoiding work! Kicking it old school with his good pal, Max Reed!! Truly, there was nothing that could sully this fine, beautiful day. Not even Sad-One's psychopathic compulsion to rain on everyone's parade would put a stopper on things. (The kid seriously needed a therapist.)

Uh, huh, huh!

...Oh hey, was that the sound of a spasming sphincter ani externus?

"Hm...?" Scaramouche glanced down at his trembling friend -- aw, was the poor thing cold? -- and wore a petite, nervous frown. "Are you, like, okay, baby?" he asked, genuine concern woven around the reverb of his artificial voice. "You look like you're about ready to cast a kitten, Reedster! Are you thinkin' about that awful rap again?" That, uh, usually got under the man's skin. Speaking of which, it was clammy. Why was it clammy...?

Before the android could get to the bottom of Reed's sudden malady, his metal finger outstretched for a temperature reading, the man made like a banana and freaking split. Scaramouche could almost, almost, make out the faint outline of facial hair left fluttering in the wind.

He turned to his wee babe saddened, his optics crestfallen. "Was it somethin' I, like, said...?"

“No! No! Dammit! Tasha!”

Oh!

Oh, oh, oh! It was the dog!!

Tasha must not have been a fan of baths either (who could blame her?), and managed to pull a fast one beneath all their noses -- even a giant can-opening schnoz like Scaramouche's. It was definitely no laughing matter.

"Hon, hon, hon~!" Scaramouche's shoulders rocked with laughter. "Guess she's a regular Poochini, eh, babe~?"

Reading the room had never been Scaramouche's forte.

Actually, a lot had never been Scaramouche's forte.

Being a clownish Jack-of-all-Trades was, however, and the android didn't skip a beat on his hard drive to help out a friend, monkey paw and all. He leeeeeaned across the doorway, his long, long neck extended to the nines, and was surprisingly thoughtful enough to offer his services! ...Whatever they may be, if any.

"D'ya, like, want me to lure her back with a dog whistle or somethin'?" he asked, blinking those wide, digital peepers. "I can do that, y'know. Just say the magic word, babu, and I'll be your genie fresh outta the bottle, no sweat~!" It wasn't made clear how a machine like Scaramouche could be of any use in a scenario like this, let alone why he'd be carrying a dog whistle (maybe his robot 'son' was actually a robot... dog?); but, whatever the case, the snazzy troublemaker was nevertheless confident in his abilities to bring Tasha right back home, safe and sound, and onto Reed's warm, adoring lap.

It was either that, orrrrr the entire apartment floor was about to reenact a certain scene from the Book of Genesis.

Did they teach woodcarving classes back at The Farm?​

 

[One-One]

"What's that, slugger, still sufferin' from diarrhea of the mouth~?"

"N-no, I don't have... diarrhea of the mouth. I don't even have a mouth." Sad-One retorted with as sassy a tone as he could muster, still sounding hesitant and embarrassed. His optics flickered to Max Reed, hoping that the man wouldn't start to judge him now...! Before his twin could start wondering about the disappearance of their mouth, their father had gone for the kill.

Scaramouche might as well have said 'Long live the Conductor' as he dunked his baby into the grossest bath the little sphere had ever seen! Much screeching and raspberries were had, the little robot shooting his father the dirtiest look he could muster before he leveled a weighty threat; "I'm telling mom." See how you like that!

Oh, right, their host. Their host with the most, who looked as if he had seen a ghost! It was a shock that Max's moustache hadn't bristled like a bottle brush! The forced laughter was remarkably close to sobbing, which naturally set off alarm bells in One-One's scrambled processor.

"I don't think he is, daddy! He needs a hug!" From the sight of One-One's wriggling nubs, it was clear that he was ready to volunteer himself for the cause! Perhaps daddy had similar ideas, his finger outstretched as the man stumbled to the tub to get it started. Before either robots could do much of anything for the quivering mass of jelly formerly named Max Reed, he asked them to watch the tub and left quickly to find his pooch!

"Was it somethin' I, like, said...?"

"Said, no... However," Stoic as ever, the depressed half of his precious bambino offered his father a flat look. "It might have been a little something you shrieked, screeched, and wheezed. ...Just a hunch." Despite his cold honesty, the ball was not without sympathy as he gave his father a tender pat-pat-pat. "Don't worry about it pops, he just doesn't know robot humor."

Oh, poor Tasha! Taking off into the concrete jungle, dirty as can be! As daddy offered his assistance, the filthy little ball formerly known as One-One peered around the doorway as well. "Oh, daddy can be very useful! He's like a swiss army knife!"

"Yeah, you'll find pops can be very useful acoustically... He won't start chanting 'death to humans' this time, promise."

 

[Max Reed]

How long had Tasha been gone? She must’ve gotten half way to Midcourt by now, so it would have been useless to dash out of his apartment, yelling her name. He would have to call every dog pound and animal shelter in Pandora to alert them to the disappearance, then work on a lost poster. Reed wondered which photo to use. He already had so many that it was difficult to choose from all the freaking cuteness, though the one of her in the straw hat might’ve just had the edge. Then again, the picture of her sleeping on her back, front paws tucked up to her chest was also…

Scaramouche’s truck horn of a voice blasted through his thoughts. Reed turned towards him, and despite his concern for Tasha, was unnerved by that long, stretchy neck. He got the same crawling, creeped out sensation watching a turtle or tortoise extend its leathery throat.

Reed was only too grateful to drop his gaze to the grubby little ball, who was peering around the doorway underneath the bigger and more terrifying robot.

“He can really call her back?” he asked.

Reed guessed it made sense since Scaramouche was a machine and all. He could probably tap into high pitched frequencies that only dogs could pick up with their keen ears. Jeez, did Reed regret not buying a dog whistle at the pet store.

He turned big, begging eyes on the huge robot. “Please Scaramouche. You’re our last chance.”

Why did speaking those closing words give him a strong sense of deja vu?

Reed didn’t get time to dwell on it long for a sharp splattering noise started to issue from the bathroom. He whirled to look, and predictably, the tub had overflooded and water was pouring on the floor.

“Crap!” Reed yelled, throwing himself back into the bathroom.

His apartment was messy enough without adding puddles and water stains to the dusty, grimy mix. Worse, what if it sunk into the apartment below? The owner was a six foot five tank on legs, who taught martial arts at a local dojo.

Reed splashed through the water to get to the tub and wrench off the hot faucet, his legs soaked and scalded beneath the knees. A thin layer of steam swirled in the air, its humidity clinging to him.