"Who's your owner?" the man asks. "I'd like to make an offer."
Dita snorts. Owner. She's a government 'com. And she opens her mouth to say something to that effect when there's a heavy hand on her shoulder, and Zima's voice saying amiably enough, "Is there a problem?"
But there's a hint of force, of danger, behind his cheery tones.
The man takes in Zima: all 190 centimeters of him and gulps. "Um…you this 'com's owner?" he asks.
Dita's processor determines that Zima must have nodded because the man backs away with a hurried, "Nice custom job."
Dita whirls around. "I had it under control," she declares.
"Of course, love," Zima says airily.
She has to tilt her head up to glare at him.
"I mean it," she says, wishing he didn't have his shades on. She wants to know what sort of code is firing inside that thick skull of his. He puts his arms around her and chuckles.
"Oh, Dita," he tells her, "Can't you let a man take care of his girl for once?"
She wants to retort that she's not a girl, and he's not a man. They're persocoms, and they're nothing like humans in the slightest. But she has an illogical urge to cup his cheek with her hand, and so she keeps quiet and lets him hold her.