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Jake massaged his cheek, where he could feel an absolutely smashing bruise forming already. That blasted robot had disappeared into the lower floors of his house, leaving nothing but a dent in the wall to show that he’d ever been.
Pride thoroughly crushed, Jake stalked over to the abandoned skulltop and slammed it onto his head, beginning to type before his eyes had even focused on the screen.
GT: What the bloody dickens was that?!
TT: You really shouldn’t have put it on challenge mode.
TT: I think he likes you. Your ribs are still intact, aren’t they? I hope so.
GT: That was him liking me?
GT: Did you mean for my birthday present to be certain death??
TT: Don’t be ridiculous. He won’t permanently injure you in any way.
TT: You should set him to novice setting if you just want a casual scuffle. The higher settings will probably come in handy later, but not today, I don’t think.
GT: Novice setting?
GT: Im not a novice in the matter of manly fisticuffs!
TT: I already remotely adjusted the difficulty.
TT: We can call it “easy mode” if it will be an aloe to the blows against your pride.
GT: My pride is not the issue here!
GT: It is fact
GT: Run that through your newfangled technology! I am no kind of amateur in these matters!
TT: Say I believe you. Easy mode should be a breeze, in that case.
TT: At which point you will learn how to turn the difficulty up, as I'm sure it hasn't failed to draw your notice that you are not in possession of a remote control.
TT: Call if a rite of passage if it will allow your noble adventurer's heart to rest easy.
GT: Fine!
GT: I will vanquish this foe
GT: In a most dashing and effortless way
GT: And then you will stop patronizing me!
GT: *STALKS OFF*
TT: His name is Brobot, by the way.
Jake has no choice, at that point, but to take off the skulltop, captchalogue it (a good adventurer is never without his five computers), and venture downstairs. It’s amazing what a good bit of paranoia and a black eye could do to make one's own house seem a bit more like dangerous ruins. Every creak in the rafters is that bloody thing coming down upon him like a tumbling boulder; every shift in the air, his nonexistent robotic breath right over Jake's shoulder. Jake had never been this careful about going down his own staircase before.
It’s something of a disappointment, then, when he finally reaches the bottom of the stairs and enters the living room to find his birthday present calmly standing in the middle of the room, pre-equiped not-at-all-shitty sword nowhere to be seen. Pulse suddenly doubling, Jake freezes in the doorway of the room, and then straightens up as though he had intended to stay there all along.
"Well played up there, mate," he blusters at the robot, unsure of whether it can actually hear and understand him. (It's Strider's creation, so it's a fairly safe bet that it can.) "Really a smashing round. Caught me off-guard a bit there - surprise attack, as it were - but I can't fault you!" He rubs the back of his neck and then stops himself when he realizes he's doing it. "I would be fairly daunted faced with a gent such as myself for the first time, too!"
The robot shifts into a fighting stance. Jake's stomach drops.
"Well, yes, I, that was the point here," he continues on. "A rematch. Yes. Are you sure you want to have it in such an enclosed space?" The living room is cluttered with strange items that Jake doesn't even look at anymore, including what is probably the taxidermied body of his grandmother. It's not the ideal place for a scuffle. The robot shows no signs of caring.
"Right, well. I guess. Yes. I must warn you, though, I'm not -" 'going to go easy on you' dies in Jake's throat as Brobot comes at him, his robotic eyes right on Jake. Eyes clenched shut, Jake puts his fists up.
Impact doesn't come. Instead, a metal hand (not as cold as he'd expect, but not human) seizes one of his wrists, twisting him around with almost minimum force. When Jake pulls his wrist away, he breaks the hold with scandalous ease. He feels rightfully insulted. "Come now, chap, that's all you have?" he asks, grabbing the robot's wrist in return and twisting it backwards. It twists, smoothly, far past where a human wrist should have gone. Jake scowls. "Now that's just-"
The robot's pulling backwards, still gently, but a combination of gravity and Jake's now-awkward grab at the wrist behind the robot's back brings them both toppling over. Jake lands conveniently on top and is only slightly bruised by the metal legs that he lands on. Pressing his advantage, he lands a punch to the side of Brobot's face, the metal bruising his hand slightly but the satisfying clank making it almost worth it.
When Brobot fights back again, he goes for Jake's arms, grabbing at his upper arms this time. There's a scuffle, slightly confused - Jake tries to squirm his way out of the grasp and instead finds his arms almost tenderly but inexorably held behind his back. Anxiety (and something else, more confused by the tenderness of the hold) curls in his stomach, and he strikes a shoulder against Brobot, kicking at him. "I say, this isn't good sport at all," Jake grumbles, not really in pain but thoroughly frustrated. "At the least you're supposed to pin me, not just -"
The sentence ends in an ungainly yelp as the world flips itself over and resolves into a robotic face, hovering over Jake's own. Jake himself is now definitely pressed into the extremely old carpeting, his arms still uncomfortably held behind his back. Flat, red eyes stare into Jake's. He feels distinctly uncomfortable.
"Right," he says, shifting, trying to get his arms free, kicking at the robot over him and then stopping when he doesn't get much of a response. "Well played, then, but-"
He's cut off again (how much of this robot's personality was derived from Strider?), but this time by an extremely unmanly giggle. It takes him a second to realize that it’s his own.
Brobot runs a hand down Jake's side again, and Jake arches up, twists, trying genuinely to get away for the first time even as he chokes on unexpected laughter. "No, stop - that's not how this -" he stumbles, but the robot has discovered the wonderful of wiggling his fingers against Jake's skin, and Jake is completely helpless with laughter, headbutting the robot in his desperation to get away from those unyielding hands.
Fingers travel up, try underneath Jake's arm, in the crook of his elbow. Jake shrieks, squirms, shouts about "a fair bout" and tries not to worry about the way that his blood shifts under his skin as well as it would in any good fisticuff. This is a form of fighting, he supposes, although it's a really unfair oh god not under the chin.
All in one motion Jake manages to pull his arms free, striking at Brobot with one hand (an open-palmed hit that is not at all a slap) while he pushes himself away with the other. "Stop," he gasps, horrifyingly out of breath. His skin is tingling; even the brush of the carpet makes him shiver again. Brobot, infuriatingly, sits there, obeys the command to stop perfectly. His eyes glow red. Jake hates him.
"Unnecessary," Jake snaps, his face flushing at how breathy he sounds. "Completely - that arsehole wouldn't know how to program a good fisticuffs if I beat it into him every day - " Standing brings a whole new set of sensations, including bringing attention to an - ahem - issue that Jake hadn't been conscious of before."This doesn't mean you've won this round!" Jake warns Brobot, before rushing himself upstairs at a slightly awkward gait.
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Thousands of miles and the other side of the cameras within a certain robot's eyes away, Strider doubles over with a longing kind of laughter.
He switches Brobot back to "defend" mode, and it obediently leaves the house, beginning its patrol.
Strider downloads the images of his - well, the robot's - and Jake's... "scuffle" and fails at telling himself that he won't rewatch it.