The computer screen that brightly reflected off of the golden robot's metallic skin was the only vantage point of ROB 64 at that moment, as he hastily typed away on the small keyboard mounted before him. The red scanner on his face noted every single little word or symbol or image that dared to show itself upon his screen, and no matter the being, it was ROB's job to analyze it fully.
He had "surfed," as those commonfolk call it, the Internet whenever he seemed to have the chance. This was a new world, a frontier, dare one say it, for him to travel and scrutinize to his nonexistent heart's content.
And no questions were asked.
All ROB could hear besides the clanking of his metalloid fingers against the plastic keys was the satisfied mumblings of a hare who was thoroughly enjoying his lunch. His late lunch. His not-as-good-as-it-should-be, rushed, not pre-meditated, mediocre, BS-ed late lunch.
But no apologies were given.
There was this...this "cat" in a big T-shirt playing on a piano with a beautifully catchy rhythm.
Some things were just that important.
Then, the hare spoke. Oh, he must have been done. Now the robot had no choice but to "communicate" or whatever these living beings called it.
"Ya know, ROB," his creator started, "Not like it's a problem...but my sandwich was pretty late today. Why was that?"
Why a lot of things, Peppy. ROB wished he could muster. Why Slippy had his first girlfriend [and then got dumped] at thirty. Why literally no one watches Scrubs. Why crossword puzzles in trashy magazines are actually really freaking hard.
But no. ROB had to come up with SOME answer...
"I..." ROB began, surfing through his own mental database. "I concurred to form the sandwich in which you requested with an extra amount of 'love,' sir."
There was a pause, a pause at which ROB was hoping for that pause to end quickly so he could go back on his maiden voyage. After that moment, the hare finally replied with, "Haha, well, I guess you can't argue with THAT logic!"
...What logic was there, you blithering idiot?
"Yes, sir."
And after dealing with that rodent captain, ROB went right back to his brilliant research, while Peppy, he supposed, was doing whatever elderly rabbits did in their spare time. Maybe wondering how he only had one daughter yet he was a rabbit, or how he had arthritis in his legs, and the pure irony of how he couldn't even jump.
He enjoyed the silence. It was a nice atmosphere to continue his research, with nothing but the soft click of a mouse and ticking away on the keyboard to enhance the ambience. As a part of his work, he checked the list he created in another window to see the progress he made venturing the inexplicably known and unknown corners of cyberspace.
He could now add "feline dawdling with instrument" onto the list.
It was quite the expansive document, that list. Hundreds and hundreds of searches, adding onto ROB's Internet portfolio. "Humans doing idiotic things," was his favorite part of the list, along with its several subcategories, such as, "swallowing practically lethal spices in one gulp," and, "lying on the stomach on a very high, steep surface," along with, "following three orange women around 'Beverly Hills.'" Maybe this was his favorite part of this excursion: seeing the behavoir of specimen through the eyes of seven billion people from millions of years ago.
The humans had left the system a long, long time ago, and this "Internet" was all that was left of their existence. Seeing all of their paraphenilia was simply fascinating to the robot, who took note of every single thing in the database, which, to his knowledge, would be around forever.
Now, all that was left was Lylat, which still had this primitive system in the airwaves, probably for the same reason ROB was infatuated: to observe the lifeforms from way back when.
All that was left was them.
Them.
Them.
Us.
"star fox"
ROB wasn't exactly too sure what he would find, but he believed he reached that point everyone on the Internet reaches at one point or another where they literally look up anything and see what comes up. People from Lylat still got on the Internet and updated whatever they decided, yet the things added by humans was borderline sacred. It was an unspoken rule not to touch the cat videos and the "Cinammon Challenges," the "planking," or "the Kardashians."
But the Lylat people, as said before, did indeed add to their pleasure. And Star Fox...Star Fox saved them five times. Surely there was something on the Internet that would justify their heroism and
"...OH. MY. GOD."
The navigator had to avert his scanner from his discovery, his discovery of the images, the videos, the documents uploaded to the world wide web added just recently. He had to whirl his head back around to see if he saw what had just seen and-oh Christ in a can-he did indeed.
Quickly, he shut off the computer, walking up from his secret compartment and slowly stepping away from the monitor, with no word uttering from his metallic muzzle. For the first time since he was able to function, he believed that maybe keeping up with those orange women didn't sound so terrible.
For the first time, Lylat had actually forsaken him in ways no one could possibly imagine.
Not many would want to.
