Demonsion: Shh... Don't let the others know I'm here. They'd kill me. I've decided that I will publish my story once per month, so as to fit into my seriously tight timetable. And here's the new... ARRGH!!!
Angel: Well, well, well, Demonsion. WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN???
Walle: Grr...
Demonsion: Guys, I can explain, I mean...
Auto: It is the holidays for you I realize.
Demonsion: Yes, besides that...
Angel: Well, what?
Demonsion: Let me finish yea? I don't and Pixar characters, but I do own Angel that's for sure.
Angel: I've noticed something.
Demonsion: What?
Angel: You've been leaving my father clean out of his story.
Demonsion: I'll try to fix that ASAP.
Angel: You'd better. Look behind you
Demonsion: NOOOOO!!! EVE DON'T POINT THAT THING TO ME, PLEASE, EVE, NO!!!
Angel: Chapter 8
The Wheel of Axiom
Auto looked around. This boredom is killing him. There was nothing he could do, except for swiveling around in his limited tracks on the deck and down to the captain quarters. The humming of the ship was the only thing that kept him going: Reminding him that there were still robots, something, someone and that he was not completely deserted.
However, he already was.
The panels on the ship that looked so familiar were now obsolete and blank. With a click of the switch a hole in the floor opened to let the robot descend. He surveyed his surroundings. There was bed, long dented by the previous four captains of the ship. Auto stared at the bed long enough. Almost everyday of the 700-year trip he had to get the captain up, whether it was Reardon or McCrea. He turned around. Everything that he registered that had been there was still there. But something, or someone was missing from the scene. The captain.
Auto jerked with a pang of discomfort. He felt unusual nowadays, as if he was malfunctioning, a sign of old age. But the Engineering lab sent their daily inspections; just the day before in fact, and there was no signs of him aging, or about to explode into thin air. This worried him.
Yet again Auto jerked, this time so violently that his wheel was brought parallel to the ground. What was this? He wasn't feeling all right at all. He felt a thousand and one things, but still his computer wiring rejected those feelings. He needed guidance: But who would guide him?
He spun around: Could a computer help him? Definitions are always correct, never wrong.
"Define 'feeling'" Auto inputted, using his formal, monotonous voice, however he thought his voice somewhat broke.
The computer came up with three definitions of 'feeling'.
Auto was seriously frustrated as he jerked another time. He couldn't imagine how hard this 'feeling' could get to him. Yet in his processor and new thought sprang up (at which he jerked even harder: He really got to see the Engineering lab): Angel.
His processor was still not adapting well to this new circumstance of 'feeling'. For seven centuries the definition of 'directive' had suit him well and good. However, now it was different. Auto should have gotten a new directive: To get out of the captain quarters by attaching new parts to himself at the Engineering lab. However, he knew, it was foolish (or what he thought, impractical). A directive had to be given, no questions.
As he spun back into the bridge, a new thought (or a spark of information) appeared. Could Angel be the key? He knows that Angel was a mere 15-year-old robot, too young perhaps, to be a master over someone, someone who can give directives. But Auto felt that Angel seemed important, at least to him. At this Auto jerked a little, feeling a slightly pleasing sensation. Still, Auto looked into the harsh sands of the afternoon land that stretched before him. There was no way he could get to Angel; Angel had to get to him.