Machina

"Wh-what? that I'd look like a stretched iron cage wrestler? Come on, let's sit and talk awhile. This iron is killer on my legs." Machina didn't wait for a response, walking over to the porch steps and taking a seat on the bottom step, making sure that she wasn't breaking the wooden sculptured porch step. Even then, her knee bent, almost touching the roof above her. Tom smiled, finally feeling at ease, and joined Machina on the steps. "So you're friends with Silver Head, right?"

Machina grunted a bit, showing the mechanical part of her. "Bet I can't hear ya from up here. But I'll try." She slapped her puffed out chest, metal clanking against metal. Tom became afraid she might wake everyone in the neighborhood. "You betcha I am. That little stack of bearings and gears is the best friend a man can have, even if he is minus a hundred times my size. Well, up and down, anyway, if you know what I mean." She bent her head vertically, as if guessing the height of something. "Ah, Silver Head's a funny one if you get going. However, a word of caution. Don't ever ask him about the day he escaped from his reality unless you have about seven days with nothing else to do but sit and listen to those bips bops."

Tom grinned. "I'll remember that. Why did you throw those rocks at me?"

"Why were you late?"

  "I. . . .uh, good point. I slept in."

Machina looked at Tom intently with her blue-tiny eyes, searching for something. "Looks like you forgot your assignment, too."

"I did? What—" Then Tom remembered the poem and what it had asked for. He'd meant to scrounge around in the basement to find some stored grease oil and also the pillow. "Oh never mind—you're right, I forgot, sorry." 

Machina poked Tom on the shoulder gently. "It's OK, I can wait."

"Huh? Do you mean..."

"That's right, big fella. Come back with what I asked and maybe I'll talk."

Tom paused before responding, hopeful that Machina would wink those little blue eyes and say she'd only been kidding. "You're... serious?"

Machina leaned closer like a giant galatic space warrior, crinkling its metal altogether. "I've been to more places in the last two weeks than you've seen in your whole life, boy. My engines are just about ready to call it a day and walk off my chasis—no pun intended, though that was a pretty good one. And my hands are rough, young man, rough."

Tom wondered if Machina was attempting too hard to be a human female... Robots' hands are meant to be rigid and a bit rough.

"You mean, the motor oil and pillow are for you?"

"Who else, boy? Do you think I'd be traipsing around the Realities with a little baby bot stuck to my hip? Of course they're for me!" Her voice had risen considerably, and Tom was worried that his dad would hear her.

  "Don't talk so loudly. You'll wake the whole neighborhood." Tom said, too busy to run through the strange words that emerged from her.

Machina answered in an exaggerated whisper. "You won't hear another peep from me until I'm holding a nice new can of motor oil and a warm-as-muffins pillow." She folded her arms and nodded curtly.

  Dramatic, pfft. Tom stood up. "I'll go—but what did you mean when you said the realities?"

"Oh, come on, boy. It's all about reality travel—science stuff, systems, teleporters."

Tom stared, wondering if anyone had ever answered a question as poorly as Machina had just done. "What are you talking about?"

Machina put her two fingers together and swiped them across her lips, the age-old sign for zipping one's mouth shut. Tom thought it was funny to see a robot acting out so much.

"Fine," Tom muttered. "Be back in a minute."

He walked up to the porch steps and opened the front door. Just before he stepped into the house, Tom heard Machina say something creepy.

"Good. Because when you get back, we need to talk about dead people."

                                        ~

Tom wasted five minutes searching for the box in the basement where his dad's motor oil was stored—the ones he recently bought new. He finally spotted it and pulled out one can of motor oil. It was bottled well with its cap, making sure it wasn't leaking of any sort. Everyone knows what it looks like when an oil cap is leaking and its around the area. It's always messy.

He walked back upstairs, still doing his best to keep quiet, and dove into the closet holding all of their holiday clothing. He eventually came across an orange-fluffed pillow that his mother's old aunt used to stroke while watching the news or movies—rarely.

Tom tried not to laugh at the thought of what Machina would do with the fluffy pillow. Even an eight-year-old kid would stop stroking a fluffy pillow.

"I can't believe I have a baby gigantic robot in my own front yard."

Holding in a snicker, he went outside.

                                        ~

"Oh, those will do just fine. Just fine, thank you." Machina hurriedly opened the can of motor oil and threw a thin, long straw through the covered surface. She took a sip with the fluffy pillow on her fingers, stroking it. "Squishy, squishy."

"Glad to be of service," Tom said, settling on the step beside his new friend. He was somewhat bewildered at some of the actions pulled by Machina. She was unlike Silver Head. Do robots like her take motor oil for energy, like ice cream for humans? Do they burn calories like humans too? ... There were many thoughts and questions bubbling in Tom's mind.

He shivered from the cold and tightened himself into a ball, saving some heat within him.

"Now I think you have a lot to tell me. What was that about dead people?"

The tall robot stroked his newly fluffy pillow, like she was going to squeeze the life out of it if it had any. She leaned against the step behind her, creaking some metal. "Ah yes, dead people. There's a phrase that Pro—" She caught herself before saying anything else, looking at Tom with guilt written all over her face.

"What?" Tom asked.

"Oh nothing... nothing. I was just going to say that there's something a good friend of mine always says:

"Nothing in this world better reflects the difference between life and death than the power of choice." My friend does say that all the time.

"What does that have to do with me?"

Machina looked at him intently. "What's your name, son?"

"Thomas Noland. Or Tom."